


Blackout

by deathofaraven



Series: Shattered Albion [4]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Resolved Romantic Tension, a lot of people are mentioned as usual, a lot of people die actually, feelings are finally admitted, lots of discussions about Albion history, probably romanticised descriptions of landscapes and travelling, the problem is that things don't really STAY dead in their 'verse do they?, we did an AU of FIII and the Keep so guess which game's next?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: The tedium of monarchy has set in for the Queen of Albion. Endless days of courtiers and nights of paperwork, the never-ending ocean of stress and frustration, have begun to wear her down. But an attack at court and a run-in with Theresa have put an end to the monotony. A journey to save Albion--to right a wrong committed long ago--looms on the horizon and, with it, an old enemy. But what will the cost be?





	1. Prologue: Tattered Pages

_Day 13 – Unknown – somewhere between Bowerstone and Rookridge – 11:48am_

_The ship left port from Bowerstone yesterday and, while I was enthusiastic to begin our voyage, I was not eager to leave my family behind. I suppose that is the cost of being a Hero: Theresa calls, you answer. And quickly, at that. I just wish I knew what I was meant to be looking for._

_On a side note, I’m beginning to think that Reaver was correct in suggesting I ask him for transport North. I haven’t understood more than a couple words these sailors have said all day! As amusing as that is, I think next time I will simply have to give in and rely on Reaver. If there’s one thing I can count on him for, it’s that he knows how to sail and talk at the same time._

_Day 18 – Unknown – Oakfield – 2:05pm_

_We’ve made our last stop for provisions before we reach the Edgelands. The sailors seem uneasy. The more time I spend with them, the easier they are to understand. It’s growing apparent that they are frightened to continue any further North. Captain Samuels—who, unlike most of his crew, is not a Northerner—does not appear to share their concern. I’m at a loss for what to do. Do I tell them to continue onwards and hope for the best or do I disembark and complete the journey on foot? What could be so terrifying in the North that they are afraid to reach it?_

_Day 19 – Unknown – Oakfield – 12:09am_

_I have decided that we will continue the quest by sea. It’s the fastest way to reach our destination and Samuels seems to agree with me. This is fortunate. The crew appears to be slightly emboldened by our show of wanting to continue on, but who knows how long that will last. The days are growing shorter and colder already; I hope we can conclude this quickly._

_Addendum: A horse messenger arrived just before dinner with a letter from Val. She sends her love and wishes me luck. According to her missive, Logan is doing well with his studies and Walter has begun teaching Victoria how to use her swords. Lately I’ve found myself wondering how much of their lives I’m to miss because of being a Hero. Will I simply awaken one day to find them grown with families of their own? Perhaps, after this quest, I can finally retire._

_Day 29 – Unknown – Wreekdrift, somewhere near the Stumbles – 8:45am_

_The sea’s been dead for over a week now and it’s putting everyone on edge. I’ve never seen such still waters. There is no wind and no current; it’s as though everything in the world has frozen but for us and the rise and fall of the sun. Tugging the ship has proved fruitless. I hope we can find some manner of breeze soon or our provisions may not last through the return journey. When Samuels has awoken perhaps there will be something I can do to help us along._

_Day 31 – Unknown – Kraken’s Jaw, just south of Shalefields – approx. 6:30pm_

_A storm struck last night. It was so vicious and so sudden that I had thought for certain we had drifted into a nest of krakens. Luckily, such was not the case. The storm lasted until just before midday today and we nearly were run aground before the crew could drop the anchors. I suppose it’s natural the sea’s rougher than when we left Oakfield, but everything else is…I’m not certain how to explain. The further North we travel, the worse I feel. Are we getting closer to whatever it is Theresa was hoping I would find?_

_Day 33 – Unknown – Ironwash River – 4:03pm_

_I might have just run into a bigger snag than I expected. We’ve gone as far as we can by ship, and yet…the men refuse to disembark so we may continue on foot. They say there is a great evil here and that is why the weather has been so strange and foreboding. Even Samuels is starting to agree with them. I don’t know if they are wrong or right, but…there is something. I can feel it. We’re being watched._

_Day 34 – Unknown – Ironwash River – 2:21am_

_Great Avo, my hands won’t stop shaking. I don’t expect this to be legible when I view it later, but I need to get this down. Shortly before midnight, one of the sailors was taken. No one knows how. Apparently he was on the opposite side of the deck from everyone who had been on watch at the time so no one saw it. It was his screaming that woke the entire ship. Going by how quickly it was cut off, none of us believe he may still be alive. The real question is: what happened to him?_

_We’ve scoured the ship from top to bottom, but we’ve not found a trace of him. We’ve seen no strange people and no creatures—nothing to say what could have happened. At this rate, we’ve no choice but to wait for the sun to rise and begin the search again._

_Day 36 – Unknown – Shalefields, west of the old Bastion – 9:30pm_

_Two more men have gone missing and we’ve still not found a trace of either them or what took them. I’ve persuaded Samuels that remaining on board his ship is no longer the safe option and we’ve begun travelling by foot. I wish I could say this ordeal has given me a sense of clarity for what Theresa wants me to find, but I still don’t know._

_I worry we may be stumbling into a trap._

_Day 40 – Unknown – Fairwood, Mare’s Teeth Hills_

_They were right. Samuels and half the crew: dead. Can’t see this thing with all the darkness.  Found safety in a cave for now. Can’t abandon the survivors. Need to kill this thing and get us back to Bowerstone._

_If we fail and someone discovers this journal, my name is Gwilym Rochester, known to most as Sparrow. I am, as of this moment, the King of Albion. Please return this to my family. Tell them I love them and I am sorry._

 

~ * ~

 

The night was impossibly dark, the cold cutting even as it burned. Blood choked the air like a pungent, ghastly incense. A lone figure picked their way through the tangled mass of felled bodies and paused as they spotted something odd. A little book, splattered heavily with gore, laid on the grassy ground. _Oh_. Yes… _that_ had fallen out of the Hero’s pocket as he vanished into a swirl of blue light. Intrigued, the figure picked up the book and flipped through it. They frowned as they finished their perusal, annoyed. With a burst of Will, darkness wrapped about the tome—within seconds it decayed to ash and dust and was no more. The figure turned away and was swallowed up by the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a new adventure. I hope you enjoy, loves. ^^


	2. 1. The Walking Dead

Night-time was a rather quiet time for most of Albion's residents. Once the hustle and bustle of work and school and other daily activities faded away with the last rays of the sun, there was very little for most Albionites to do but hole up in their houses and hope that none of the hungry beasts roaming the wilderness wanted them badly enough to break in. The dark was a special reminder of how little power they had over the terrible things out _there_. After all, only bad things and the guards that attempted to fight them off would ever dare to be caught outside in the country after darkness fell. Therefore, when a lone, black-lacquered carriage rattled down the main road from Bowerstone—its horses tearing down the path as though Skorm himself were on their heels—anyone who happened to glance out their windows was instantly suspicious.

The largest house in the region—the mansion belonging to the immensely wealthy, and extremely egotistical, industrialist Reaver—was the only house that still seemed to be bustling with movement despite the growing lateness of the hour. The servants were occupied with their individual tasks; hastily working to make sure the house was in perfect order when their employer eventually returned. The usual aura of anxiety in the air had been replaced by a far calmer, almost relaxed atmosphere. That, however, didn't last long. Soon enough, there was a clatter of hoof beats on the gravel drive and the loud rattle of wheels. Word quickly spread for everyone to be on awares.

Despite the amount of warning they had, the servants were never quite prepared for their employer's return. They quickly received even further of an indicator of just how unprepared they were to greet him. It wasn't so much that the front door slammed, but _how_ it was slammed that sent the few servants brave enough to attempt a greeting scurrying out of the halls to bury themselves in their tasks. It was an angry and loud sound; a final-sounding **_boom!_** that echoed through the manse in much the manner of a gunshot. After that…well, the servants knew not to stay in plain sight any longer.

Silence reigned for several long minutes, eerily permeating the hallways like a toxic gas, before measured footsteps finally broke through the air, stalking through the extravagantly decorated halls with barely masked impatience. Just one look at the newly-arrived man was enough to see that it was difficult for Reaver to keep from destroying everything around him. His shoulders were taught and his dark hair mussed. His customary smirk had vanished in the beginnings of, what some might have termed, a childish tantrum. As far as he was concerned, those people were _clearly_ wrong.

The Queen was driving him to distraction…and not the pleasant kind. The entire incident had begun with her asking him to… _think outside the box_ in regards to his petitions to the Crown in order for her to maintain her public image. Though years had passed since then, a tradition was borne: Reaver would propose something to the court, the Queen would, usually, reject it immediately, and, in private, she would always tell him if he could _actually_ do it or not…provided he paid for the entire project. It was a delicate, frequently tilting balance that worked out well between them. He got his brothel, and she got to keep the treasury full to be spent on projects that she deemed to be of more "benefit" to the masses. (Which was confusing, because, when _wasn't_ a brothel beneficial to the masses?) This time, however, was very different. The entire, mutually beneficial, proposal of a new mine in the Edgelands had been rejected in all shapes and forms. According to the Queen, as soon as the land was surveyed it was "too dangerous for those who might work within it". After several hours of debating, Victoria had still refused to give in. Even now frustration pulsed so insistently through him that he thought he could have pulled his hair out if only it wouldn't have utterly _destroyed_ his looks.

They'd been working on their relationship and on communicating better for so long now, but sometimes it was as though they were speaking two entirely different languages. She tried to do something nice for him, it usually backfired. He tried to follow her lead, she ended up annoyed. He just wasn't certain of exactly _what_ she expected of him. Sometimes…sometimes that made her _infuriating_. It was as though she didn't see a line between their personal and business relationship. Like she didn't realise their deals couldn't _just_ be everything or nothing. She needed to understand there were limits to these things…he just didn't know how to explain it to her.

If he thought hard enough on it, he supposed he could ask Ernest to talk some sense into her. Ever since the Understone debacle, Ernest had been almost casual around him. If anyone could calmly convince Victoria to see merit in a business proposal it was Ernest Faraday. Still, the thought made Reaver cringe. He was not making the trip to Clockwork Island just to beg for Ernest's help. He'd figure something out on his own. All he had to do was get around Victoria's silly moral code…which he guessed wouldn't be too difficult if he had a solid—albeit easy to improvise—plan in mind.

Humming an odd tune to calm himself, Reaver traversed the empty halls to his study. He needed to get some notes together. And to drink. He _really_ needed something to drink.

He pushed open his study doors with what was probably more enthusiasm than necessary and let them fall closed behind him as he all but collapsed into his chair—of course, had anyone questioned him on the matter, he would have insisted he had merely sat down gracefully and with great speed, but that was another thing _entirely_. The bottle of Burgundy he'd opened that morning was still on his desk—a stopper having been shoved into the bottle's mouth, most likely by a servant—and he poured out a small glass. Distracting himself settled his temper rather nicely, despite the fact that he was lacking in pleasurable company and so was only able to focus on one of the many sheaves of parchment that had been set upon his desk at some time or another.

From the next room over Reaver could hear the solitary echoes of a long case clock, ticking away seconds like a metronome as he sipped at his glass. The lonesome sound mingled with the soft crackling of the flames in his study's hearth like a delicate nocturne, only occasionally punctuated by the rustling of papers and the scratch of his pen. He needed a plan. Something concrete and thoroughly devious that would _still_ be able to win the queen's attention. After all, he did so loathe being refused, especially for petty reasons, and he knew perfectly well that the Queen was not _entirely_ immune to his charms. All he had to do was find a means to make her see things his way.

At that thought, the fire in the hearth abruptly dimmed as though a large gust of wind had come down the chimney and the room dimmed with it. Reaver drew his head up from his work as the room failed to brighten even as the fire itself returned to its former brilliance. One of the oil lamps—an expensive one with a fashionable, coloured glass shade—on the other side of the room was out. He could feel the beginnings of a frown start to tug at his lips as his mind needlessly pointed out that the very same lamp had been lit only moments ago. Reaver tried to dismiss it—after all, the damper was open in the fireplace and the weather had been erratic lately, so it was easily explained away as a by-product of the same wind that had made the fire grow dim—but that didn't stop him from resting his free hand on the butt of the Dragonstomper .48 holstered at his hip.

He'd nearly convinced himself that the wind truly was to blame when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another lamp flicker and then extinguish itself as though someone had blown out the flame.

"Oh, now _really_ ," he soliloquized with a huff of annoyance, drawing his pistol languorously. "Either this is merely a prank in poor taste, or this is one of the most abysmal taunts I've _ever_ happened to lay eyes upon. Tut, tut, you really _must_ try harder," he added to the room at large, tapping the Dragonstomper's barrel against his thigh meditatively.

As though in response the two lamps on the other side of the study abruptly extinguished, leaving only the light of his desk lamp and the fireplace to fight off the growing darkness. His pulse picked up, thudding through his head with pre-battle adrenalin, as his eyes searched the gloom for any sign of movement. A growl of frustration very nearly forced its way from his throat as he failed to find whatever thought it was amusing to keep turning off his lights. Really, didn't they have better things to do than screw around with him and get shot?

Fingers brushed the back of his neck, as cold as ice and just as biting, to make his skin erupt with gooseflesh. Reaver whirled, pistol at the ready, and was startled to find…absolutely nothing. Nothing but the wall-to-wall bookcases that occasionally gave the study the air of a padded cell. He stared at the countless leather-bound books without seeing their titles and absently licked his lips to return moisture to his strangely dry mouth. Tried to calm his pulse. He had to be doing this to himself—it was far too fanciful a situation to not be purely his own imagination. _This is ridiculous._

The hiss of his desk lamp being turned off instantly pushed all thoughts of this being a possible hallucination out of his mind.

" _Reaver_ ," a voice like the hush of embers dropped into cold water called, barely louder than a whisper.

He could feel eyes boring into his back, making his skin crawl as though it wanted to be _anywhere_ but attached to him. He steadied himself and adjusted his grip on the Dragonstomper before turning back to the rest of the room.

A dark mist was growing there, coalescing into a—very familiar—umbral figure whose features were hidden within the depths of a deep hood. The darkness grew, bringing a soul-crushing cold with it as it spread throughout every corner of the room until even the fireplace struggled to pierce it. And that voice echoed through his mind again: " _Thief Prince…_."

 _Damn_. This couldn't be happening—actually, as it was, in fact, happening, it most certainly _could_ be, but it was most improbable. Indeed, Reaver might have been more willing to believe it had he still been living in Bloodstone, where the corpses of his past had long since been both drowned and buried in what was all but his backyard—not that having Wraithmarsh so close to the his home had ever been very pleasant—but here, in the middle of the pretty new life he'd painted for himself? It was unfathomable. A distant part of his mind supposed that, he ought to be concerned about what would happen if someone—say, his new butler, perhaps—were to walk in and see a Shadow Judge in his study but he was a bit too concerned about _why_ the aforementioned Judge was there to begin with. He had paid up his annual sacrifice only a scant few months ago, ensuring himself another year of living as he currently did. If the Shadow Court had suddenly decided they no longer had use for him…. A flicker of panic flared through the back of his mind and he immediately tried to squelch it. By Skorm, he'd rather fight a flock of banshees blindfolded, than let his anxiety show.

"Why, whatever could _you_ be doing here?" he enquired, making a show of lowering his pistol.

The Shadow Judge—Reaver was never certain which was which, if only because they all looked exactly alike and none of them had ever bothered to offer their names—shifted slightly, half turning, before facing Reaver once more. Though he was unsure if the Judges actually had eyes, Reaver could feel the weight of the Judge's gaze like a physical force and his careless smirk faltered slightly.

" _You would dare question one such as I, Thief Prince?_ " the Judge enquired, moving half a step closer to where Reaver stood. " _You would offer me threat, as well_."

 _Of course I would_ , Reaver thought impetuously, though he was careful not to give the thought voice. From the very first moment he had laid eyes on the Shadow Court, all those years ago when he had been so disgustingly _weak_ , the Judges had chilled him. He was an expert at acting nonchalant towards them and anyone else that came across his path, but they still unnerved him. Still brought out the memory of shadow and flame to torment him, reducing him to the very same mental state he had been in the night he…no, it was best not to think of that. Instead he raised his head defiantly, tapping his Dragonstomper against his thigh with an idle lack of care, and drawled, "Why, _of course_ not! I was simply _so surprised_ by your arrival, I acted without thought…you understand, I'm sure."

" _Do not_ lie _to me, Thief Prince_ ," the Judge hissed, making Reaver decide he wasn't drunk enough for this. " _You have grown lax. Lax and tiresome. You have made a fool of all those who granted you borrowed time, but no longer. Time is up._ "

For a brief second, Reaver's heart began to race with panic; his mind began screaming at him to run as far away as he could, as fast as he could. And then it faded. Panic and fear, the heady flood of adrenalin, was his element. He was _Reaver_ , after all. King of pirates, industrial magnate, and he was not about to fall to his knees like some ignorant peasant and beg for his life. He _refused_ to die, and, if he had no other choice but to do so, then he was _not_ going alone.

He raised his pistol and cocked it, staring the Judge down defiantly. "I believe we have a conflict of interests, there. Allow me to demonstrate."

The bark of the Dragonstomper sounded oddly muffled, as though fluff had been stuffed into his ears, but that didn't keep him from firing three bullets into the Judge's head in quick succession. Though his aim was true and the bullets hit their mark, the Judge only wavered slightly (which was surprising enough, considering Reaver wasn't even certain the Shadow Court had forms more substantial than a…well, a shadow) and failed to vanish.

" _Do you think such childish toys will harm me? I who am eternal and beyond time? I who gave you life beyond all mortal means?_ "

The Judge lifted its hands to lower its hood and suddenly Reaver was painfully aware that he was staring at himself. Or…more accurately, something that had shaped itself into his image, though they had gotten several things wrong. For one, his doppelganger was dressed in the clothes of a peasant, its skin as colourless as new-fallen snow and its eyes and hair darker than the deepest of shadows. Its gaze seemed to look through him, reading every sin inscribed on his soul and weighting them against each other.

"You are _not_ one of the Shadow Court," he observed, lowering his gun by a fraction of an inch.

It seemed to hesitate before walking unsteadily toward him. "I am…beyond this world," it replied, its voice androgynous with an odd flowing quality, like water running over rocks. "I am the keeper of the farthest gate; the one who leads wayward souls into the abyss. I am Death. And you, Thief Prince, are no longer for this world."

Reaver's throat had gone dry, and the walls felt a mite too close to him, crowding in like an assembly of people pressing against him. _One of the Old Gods…_. Despite his effort to embrace the modern age, he couldn't shake certain parts of his upbringing—the tattoos littering his skin were proof of that. Sometimes superstition was just ingrained into one's blood. But now was not the time to let it take over him. Instead, he addressed his malcontent with scorn, and spat, "Rubbish. I made a deal: one sacrifice, every year, and I remain immortal. I've never once missed a sacrifice, and you have the sudden desire to change the deal now?"

"No. That was _not_ the arrangement."

"And how would you know?" he spat petulantly. "I—"

"Made your bargain with the Shadow Court. I am aware," Death finished for him, effectively cutting him off. "Did you believe them to be leash-less? Bound to this world by pain and the stubborn refusal to die? No. I hold all contracts, and all contracts to me are bound. A life for a life. You died moments ago and I shall collect. You will come with me."

Reaver wasn't entirely sure what he felt just then—he wasn't even entirely certain that this wasn't some ridiculous, distasteful prank—but he knew one thing: he was _alive_. His heart thudded erratically in his chest and he could _hear_ his blood rushing in his ears. His head ached, thudding dully, and his body was weary. But he was _alive_. And, as long as he was, there wasn't a chance, by any of the gods, that he would go willingly into Death's arms. He raised the Dragonstomper and steadied his grip. "And if I refuse?"

Death paused, head tilted slightly, and, the next thing Reaver knew, he had been all but thrown into his chair and was now trapped there in Death's preternaturally strong grip. "If you shoot me once more," it began warningly, "then I will drag you, kicking and screaming, into the afterlife. Still yourself, resist the urge to fight for your life, and I will grant to you a single chance to live. To live and to live out the same amount of years you have already been granted."

Reaver abruptly stopped fighting. He didn't trust Death, didn't trust that this creature was being honest with him, but it wasn't as though he could afford to tell it to sod off, either. If it truly was Death itself, then it would take him; if it wasn't, then it would probably tear him asunder. He didn't like either of those choices. But the thought of having so many years without worry that the Shadow Court was going to decide they no longer wanted his service was intriguing. Intriguing and just about the only thing that kept him talking.

"You have my attention," Reaver drawled.

"You have three choices that lie before you," Death replied, unsmiling and emotionless. "The first is that you will succumb and I will take you. You will have no time to prepare and no time for goodbyes; you will merely vanish to the world. At first, those who are invested in you will fret and fear that something has happened. However, as the months and years go by, they will quickly come to realise that you are meaningless to them and you will fade from memory."

It paused clearly reading Reaver's expression of utter disbelief before continuing on: "But you have already voiced your distaste for such a fate. Which brings me to your second choice. I can make you a true immortal, which will keep me as uninterested in your fate as if I were to take you now, but heed my words: the price will be steep. You will know no peace or happiness, only pain and emptiness. You will lose everything and all you love shall fade. For those who are not immortal are not made to be so, and affliction is the only way for them to bear such a burden.

"Your third choice is the one I mentioned earlier: I will grant to you the equivalent of years you have already lived to continue on with your life, if you but fulfil a single quest on my behalf. Make your choice."

Reaver resisted the urge to laugh or mock Death, if only because he didn't want to risk losing a chance to keep living. Honestly, the first two options were ridiculous. He had not lived so long with the intention of being forgotten about because some strange creature had decided it preferred the thought of him being dead. Nor did he intend to spend an eternity in misery and suffering—it was beyond idiotic to think that _anyone_ would. After all, the point of living as he had was to ensure that he _enjoyed_ life and was able to do _what_ he wanted, _as_ he wanted. Which…meant that he really had no choice, after all. The third option seemed too good to be true (much like a swindle, really), but he was also aware that it was really the only option that would benefit him and it was really the option Death wanted him to pick.

He decided to indulge Death and, affecting disinterest, enquired, "What, exactly, are you asking of me?"

"Something dangerous is coming to pass and, because it slipped into being so silently, someone is about to die that is not yet meant to. This can cause irreparable damage, and you _will_ be the one to prevent it. Complete this task and you will have your prize. Fail, and Albion will fall with you."

 _Ah, there's the catch_ , he thought cynically. Reaver didn't _do_ saving people—no, to be accurate, he found saving people boring and had no interest in it. After all, he wasn't a Hero. Well…he _was_ , but not in the way everyone assumed Heroes were, nowadays. The only person he ever had looked out for, and the only person he ever wanted to look out for, was himself. But wasn't that what he'd be doing if he took the deal? He would be saving himself by saving someone else. It was a far more tolerable option to dying.

"Before I choose," he began slowly, "tell me something: who _exactly_ am I meant to be keeping _alive_?"

Death hesitated a moment and then began to speak…and Reaver's blood turned to ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I always liked was how the Fable series teases things like the Old Gods and demons. There's vague mentions but there's nothing really beyond that. All the gods that have been named were proven to be false and no one really seems to believe in them. But then you get a little whisper about something older, scarier, beyond our ability to conceive, and all I could think, at every reference, was "what if that's real? what if they're not gone?" Well...I guess the answer is that they screw things up for people. But it's a fun concept to explore...get my fingers in for a while...do scary things....


	3. 2. Arella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, I keep forgetting to put this in, but: massive thank you to Rebel_Dynasty for beta-reading this fic and for letting me throw years-worth of lore at her in a very short amount of time! This would have been impossible to post without her! <3

Everyone had some place, or thing, that made them feel more at ease. For some, it was good food and drink; for others, ease only came from being at home with just those they cared about. Reaver, Victoria had long since learned, was perfectly relaxed only in two places: at sea or in bed. In the case of the second one, it wasn’t so much the during, but the _afters_ that seemed to make him relaxed enough to talk about something that wasn’t mired in perversity or ulterior motives. Or so twisted with subtext that she had to ponder it for ages after they’d spoken.

Curled up on her side, Victoria watched him with intrigue, enjoying the way the dim light from the fire place played across the angles of his face. When he wasn’t going out of his way to provoke her and she didn’t have to pretend she barely noticed him for the Court’s sake, she had to admit that Reaver was a treat to watch. Okay, so he was a treat that infuriated her incessantly and whose morals and priorities often conflicted with her own, but that didn’t stop him from being attractive. Or fun. Or nice to be around. Usually there was a touch of smugness to his features, curling his lips and quirking his brow—usually, she’d noticed, it was the one on her left as she faced him that seemed to rise as though he was saying “you must be joking” without speaking a word—but, at that moment she couldn’t detect any of it. It was as though something was dampening his deviousness, making the spark in his dark eyes dim a fraction.

“Are you alright?” Victoria whispered, gently taking ahold of his shoulder. It was difficult for her to be both soothing and wary, but she made herself try. For as long as she’d been aware of his sleep patterns (and, she was sure, for a long while before then), Reaver had played host to chronic nightmares. Victoria had long since learned that, if she wasn’t ready to get out of the way, waking him too soon could sometimes end with her getting a new bruise to add to her already extensive collection. She didn’t think he did it on purpose, but that didn’t really matter. If she didn’t _have_ to get hurt, then she didn’t _want_ to get hurt…and she especially didn’t want, or need, to get shot. Again. As that not so mild concern flitted through her head, he turned slightly toward her and his expression seemed to brighten marginally. Having regained his attention, Victoria added, “You looked a million miles away.”

Reaver turned to look at her more fully, the almost gentle curls of his fashionably over-long fringe falling into his dark eyes, and, for a split second, Victoria could tell that he was on the verge of saying something. Something very important. Then that crack—that little crease in his demeanour—faded and, smirking just slightly, he replied, “Oh, nothing’s the matter at all, _ma chere_. I was merely attempting to sort something out—very _dull_ business, mind you—and it seems to have had great success at lulling me into a rather soporific state.”

 _Liar_ , she thought, rolling her eyes at him as she snuggled deeper into her blankets with a yawn. “It looks like it’s catching.”

“Goodness me, whatever shall we do with a queen too tired to tend to her own court?” he taunted in return. “Shall I take over for you? I can assure you that _I’ll_ get them to listen.”

A tiny bit of unease crept into Victoria’s feeling of warmth and peace, and she tried to smother it by breathing in his scent and putting up a mental guard. But neither stopped her from muttering under her breath: “Right. _I_ bet you _would_.”

 ~ * ~

The man standing before her was an idiot; Victoria had known that the second he had opened his mouth and began speaking. It was a shame, really, for his bearing and countenance had seemed to suggest intelligence on his part, but, unfortunately, looks were often deceiving.

Victoria truly hated holding court. The poorer people of Albion were depressing in their struggles against the world and the nobles were disgusting in the avariciousness. Both sides of society pushed her in ways they would have _never_ pushed her predecessor, and so, since she couldn’t just wave her hand and restructure the entire society, she pushed back. In the seven short years since the former King of Albion, her brother, Logan, had died and she had been crowned Queen, she had single-handedly removed the titles of _four_ venerable noble families whilst taking up the “hobby”—as Ben had once referred to it—of knocking the other nobles down from their pedestals to join the masses they refused to acknowledge they belonged to. And, while the nobles would only deign to focus on _those_ cheerful memories, she had also rebuilt Aurora and Bowerstone’s Old Quarter almost entirely with her own fortune while endorsing the protection of several of the country’s landmarks.

The nobility saw her as an ice queen, cold and brutal; the rest of the country: as a shining Hero. But, the fact was, Victoria was tired of her country tearing itself in two. How could a society prosper when the gap between each of the classes was so large? How could the country continue to grow and remain strong when those who cared for it were poor, and those who were wealthy only cared for themselves? She couldn’t let things continue on in the way they had been, and so she had to, occasionally, be harsh. But also kind. It was a balancing act that allowed her to remove those who were hindering society from power and allow those who truly wanted to help to grow. The only problem was that some people didn’t seem to have figured that out.

She let her gaze travel surreptitiously about the room, trying to hide that she wasn’t paying attention. Her guard stood at intervals around the room, each of the women almost identical in dress but for the differences in hair and skin colour. She wondered how they had the patience to stand there, perfectly still, for hours on end when she had the desire to leap from this throne almost immediately upon sitting down. At the very back of the throne room, someone made a stealthy exit, strands of bright pink escaping their dark hood as they departed. Closer to the front of the room, she spotted George Tilburn, a representative of Faraday Industries that she was familiar with—unapproachable and snobby-looking, he was actually soft-spoken and nervous. Perhaps this time he had reason to be nervous; standing beside him was Reaver. There was the faintest bit of anticipation in his bored smirk, as if Reaver knew what she was about to do and couldn’t wait to witness it. However, that didn’t change the fact that something seemed… _off_ about him. Just not quite right with his usual demeanour. He’d been like that for the past week and it _bothered_ her. She tried to reassure herself that she was only concerned because he might be getting involved in something dangerous, but it sounded false even in the privacy of her own thoughts.

Her attention was drawn again to the small man before her and her ire sparked once more. His voice trailed off into nervous nothingness at the look in her eyes. He had to have known his chances of winning her over to the idea of more land and titles were slim to none. Why he persisted—why _any_ of the over-dressed people occupying her throne room at that precise moment did—puzzled her.

One of her guards stepped up to her and, as Scarlet began whispering in her ear, Victoria felt tension mount in the room. _No one_ wanted Scarlet to step forward while they pled their case. Scarlet was an enigma wrapped in a mystery…which anyone could tell you upon first glancing at the woman wrapped from head-to-toe in burgundy velvet. She spoke to none but her queen—her voice too low for anyone else to hear, despite the accuracy of her information—and her face was covered entirely by an ornately carved silver mask. Creepy? Yes, very. But Victoria understood Scarlet’s wishes to keep her family and identity secret well enough to not mind it anymore.

Still, Scarlet was considered a bad omen to the court—and an hourly evil to some. Like a flock of crows or a banshee outside one’s window, or the ocean being perfectly still on a stormy day, she was a sign to those who were petitioning the queen that something bad was about to happen. Even if she was only reminding Victoria that she needed to get to tea on time.

Once finished relating her findings, Scarlet stepped submissively back behind the throne and out of view, barely making a sound in the process. Victoria tilted her head in thought, finally giving her petitioner her full attention.

“The land you possess has been in your family for many generations, has it not, Mr. Dent?” Victoria said delicately.

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Dent confirmed, looking faintly ill but very determined in his navy-waistcoated suit. He was close enough that she could see the perspiration on his brow.

“And _when_ ,” she went on, trying to sound politely inquisitive and in control without sounding…well, _bitchy_ , “did the hobbes begin calling it their land as well?”

The queen had to hand it to him, Dent stayed utterly composed, though his voice was rather strained as he replied, “Hobbes, my lady? I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“Don’t you know what a hobbe is, Mr. Dent? Child-sized, nasty tempers, lots of teeth; does _any_ of that seem familiar to you?” When Dent flushed amidst a couple poorly-hidden snickers from the court, Victoria added, “Don’t pretend to be ignorant. I’ve received two complaints about them in the past six months alone. Clearly I misjudged you in thinking you had the dignity to have them removed yourself.”

She paused a moment, the room’s temperature seeming to drop and the air charged with electricity. Disappointment and distaste coalesced around her like a thunderstorm and no one was laughing at her sarcastic jibes any longer. “That will not stand, _sir_. You come before me, begging and pleading but incapable of taking responsibility for that which you already have…and you expect rewards? _No_. I may be a woman, but I am not the ignorant little decoration you seem to have confused me with. There will be no talk of _any_ elevations of status until this matter is resolved.” Her brown eyes flicked from Dent to the rest of the crowd. “And that goes for _everyone_ here.”

Mutinous looks were cast at Dent from around the room as he bowed himself out. As Victoria had Walter call up the next person, she had the feeling that if Dent didn’t remove the hobbes soon…the rest of the court would remove _him_.

She couldn’t wait for the day to end.

~ * ~

The dusky streets of Bowerstone were lively with a mix of travellers and merchants. Adults hurried about having finally left their occupations for the day, and children ran amok, playing and squealing joyfully. However, in sharp contrast, a small trio of guards at Bowerstone’s port found themselves almost utterly alone. They didn’t mind too much as they sat at their post eating, drinking, and chatting merrily. A benevolent queen and a beautiful spring evening just seemed to encourage good cheer.

Not that that would stop them from either attacking or helping anyone at the first sign of trouble.

Lorcan Chunley, the youngest of the three, was a round-faced youth who, while enjoying the spotlight and grandeur that occasionally ran hand-in-hand with Albion’s militia (if only during stories and gossip told in smoky pubs around the country), was more inclined to pass up attention and turn it towards his elders if and when it suited him. As it happened, this was a trait that his fellow officers—Markson and Rudolph—both admired and found immensely frustrating, as they usually ended up bearing the brunt of the attention. Luckily it was taken good naturedly and, of the two, only Rudolph exacted his revenge by teasing Chunley mercilessly.

It was in the middle of one of these moments where, for a change, Markson was relating one of his rare jokes that they saw her: a woman walking along the docks toward them. At first, they thought nothing of it—it was probably just some traveller who was a bit lost and would want information—but, the closer she got, the more they became aware that something truly _was_ wrong with her.

To start, she was completely starkers but for a variety of silvery jewellery. Her knee-length hair fell in a dark waterfall of stringy curls to keep her, very shapely, bosom from view.

“Ma’am, is everything alright?” Rudolph called, rising to his feet. He had two young daughters and Chunley was sure he heard fatherly concern in the older man’s voice.

The woman was closer now; close enough that they could all see that, not only was she drenched in seawater, but her round, beautiful face was tear-streaked. Chunley was unsure if he was imagining it or not, but the deathly pallor of her skin seemed to be emitting a faint blue glow. That thought gave him a bit of pause as some kind of recognition tingled at the very back of his mind, unnerving him. _…Blue?_

“Miss?” Markson asked, also concerned. “Did someone… _do_ something to you? Are you injured?”

“I need to go to the castle,” she told them, her soft voice full of dream-like music.

There was blood on her leg. Chunley could see it clearly now; blood and a strange, festering black mark. His instincts told him to run, to flee in blind panic, but he stood firm. He was a _soldier_ and it was his duty to help this woman. He would _not_ run and be labelled a coward.

“Let’s get you to hospital, alright?” Rudolph was saying in a comforting voice. “We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

The woman sighed as though she were exhausted, moving past them. “I…I need to warn….”

Her breath caught and her eyes closed, teetering violently on her next step as if she were about to fall.

“Miss!” Markson yelped…and then he made the terrible mistake of touching her.

His hand met her shoulder and she jerked to attention, her now pitch-black eyes snapping to him as if targeted. In the brilliant blue glow she was now emitting, she didn’t look so beautiful anymore: her face now looking serpentine and ravenous as her full lips parted to show a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth. It was only a second later that she let out an infuriated shriek and tore into Markson’s throat. When the soldier dropped stone dead, she turned her fury on Rudolph and leapt upon him.

Training and weapons forgotten, fear took over Chunley’s mind and he turned and ran.

~ * ~

There was just one case left. Just _one_ and _these people_ would be _gone_ and Victoria could have the rest of the night to herself to do as she pleased. Ironically, the case was about a chicken (well, a flock of them, to be precise). Apparently the chickens kept wandering off the land they were meant to remain on, but, truly, Victoria had stopped paying attention to this nonsense twenty minutes ago. And, as a noble woman and the chicken farmer verbally battled it out, Victoria rubbed her aching temples and gave Walter a look that all but screamed, _“are you serious?!”_

Walter’s expression was one of amused sympathy for her nerves and disbelief at the situation.

 _What is Albion coming to?_ Victoria thought dryly as she attempted to make sense of an argument that had lost all semblance of sensibility.

Completely unannounced, the throne room’s doors opened…and then the screaming began. It started in the back of the room, trickling forward like a small stream of water over a dry creek bed as someone stumbled toward the throne and the court-goers struggled to move each other out of the way so they could get away from the uninvited guest. Scarlet stepped protectively in front of Victoria. Which, in all honesty, frustrated her more than it could make her feel secure; after all, with Scarlet in front of her, and pandemonium in the rest of the room, she _couldn’t see_ what was coming at her. For all she could see, a fully grown rock troll could’ve skipped through the hall in a dress and Victoria would have missed the entire spectacle.

“ _ **SILENCE!**_ ” Walter shouted in a booming, authoritative voice that was seldom heard. It worked, though, for it startled the room into a horrified silence.

The air around her grew thick and heavy with fear like a toxic mist and Victoria manoeuvred Scarlet out of the way just enough to catch a glimpse of a soldier staggering toward her. She darted forward to catch him as he fell. Up close, it was obvious why there had been screams: his eyes and ears were bleeding profusely. A large chunk of his flesh had been brutally torn from his shoulder, exposing the bone and sinew beneath his skin and his ribs were broken, one having completely punctured his skin.

“Milady?” the soldier croaked. “Is…is she an angel?”

The man was dying and in need of immediate medical attention, but, instinctively, Victoria’s eyes snapped up to where a pale woman was making her way down the aisle toward her. She was beautiful, yes, but Victoria knew well enough that she was certainly no angel.

“ _Balls_ ,” Walter breathed, having moved in behind her. “What’s a _siren_ doing in here?”

“I am looking…for the queen…of Albion,” the siren announced in between laboured breaths.

“I am she,” Victoria called warily, prepared to attack if needed.

The siren’s sad smile was heart-breaking. “I am so sorry, dear lady. I failed. You…are in danger. He is coming for us all.”

As the siren slumped into unconsciousness, Victoria wondered why she’d ever thought court should be a little more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE US THE CONCEPT ART SIRENS, LH??? WHY??? D:


	4. 3. Rest For the Wicked

Victoria had never been the most patient of women. Despite the calming nature of the pale walls and large windows in the medical ward, she was bristling. She hadn’t had cause to be so angry in years, but, as she paced the far end of the ward, it was a struggle to keep her mood from spilling out into the world around her. She needed, _wanted_ , answers and she needed them soon. Victoria had tried speaking with Samuel, Brightwall Academy’s head librarian, but, despite both of their best efforts, she could find no information on why a siren would inexplicably walk into her throne room and collapse after killing a good deal of soldiers that had been hired to protect the very person the siren had wanted to talk to. There was also no explanation for a strangely shaped mark the doctor had found carved into the siren’s skin—a mark that, in Victoria’s opinion, resembled something like a curly version of a child’s rendition of the sun—except for a tiny sketch beside a notation on an ancient scroll that neither of them could read. From there, Victoria had decided to play this incident as safely as possible and reach out to allied countries for possible aid in the event that something was, yet again, coming to destroy Albion. Her plea was almost instantly denied by almost every one of the other rulers. Victoria’s only saving grace was that one of the others, an elderly queen that she was on exceptionally good terms with, had revealed in confidence that she would have her best scholars begin work on anything that could potentially be useful.

However, a week had passed and there was still no sign of news. Annoyed, she threw herself down into one of the chairs that had been placed beside an empty cot and crossed her arms. She barely resisted the urge to tap her foot, as well. Luckily for her nerves, the nurse entered but a moment later.

Nurse Nina “Nanny” Andrews was a plump, matronly woman who looked like someone’s very severe grandmother. Nanny shot the young queen a disapproving look as she wheeled a gurney into the room. “Have ye gone about hurtin’ yerself again, Milady?”

“Hmm? Oh; no,” Victoria said quickly, flocking to the older woman’s side. She glanced down at the gurney where the siren—still wet from spending the last twelve hours in a large tub full of sea water—was sleeping soundly. “Has she awoken at all? Has she said anything?”

Nanny sighed, frowning, and pursed her lips. “She hasn’t woken up yet, Miss. Nor’s she said nothin’. Now, ma’am, I do know I said I’d let ye know when she had woken. There be no need for ye to sit about waiting.”

Victoria repressed a sigh of frustration, remembering that she’d just told herself to not take her frustration out on others only a few minutes ago. Didn’t Nanny understand that she _had_ to know? What if something terrible was about to happen? What if no one knew and it as the worst thing imaginable? She swallowed her fears, ignoring the nervous lump in her throat and tried to keep her pessimism and paranoia from causing any harm, and nodded. “Very well, then.

Nanny gave her a good natured smile. “Thank ye kindly, Milady. Now, would ye be so kind as to help me get her in bed? She weights ‘bout a sack o’ stones.”

Blinking slightly in surprise at actually being asked to help, Victoria nodded. She moved towards the siren’s feet and got ready to lift her.

~ * ~

Victoria stared blankly down at the paperwork on her desk without really seeing it. It was maddening, all this meaningless work. No one around her seemed to care about the siren, other than the possibility that she might have had the potential to hurt them. Victoria, on the other hand, didn’t think the siren had been a danger to them at all. She had only targeted people who had tried to restrain her, those that had gotten out of the siren’s way had been ignored in the throne room. It seemed highly unlikely that the siren would have gone out of her way to attack people if she had so readily ignored them. (Unfortunately, she doubted she would ever have confirmation of that fact; there was an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach that kept reminding her it was unlikely the siren would wake.)

Eyes burning from the strain, Victoria tossed her pen down upon her papers in disgust. So tired for so long. She needed…she needed…. Victoria cut off her train of thought with a huff. Frowning at the petition she had just received to raise the legal alcohol purchase limit, she decided that, sometimes, she just really didn’t understand the people of Albion. If someone was attempting to harm them or those around them, they said hardly a word about it unless their opinion was asked in a private setting—and, even then, it was only vehemently given half of the time. However, if someone even mentioned in passing that they disliked liquor, everyone around them nearly rioted. There had to be something wrong with them as a society if liquor was more important than human lives.

The study door opened. Scarlet and Hobson entered, clearly ignoring each other. As soon as the door had closed, Scarlet removed her silver mask to reveal an older woman with greying hair and amber eyes. She seemed calm, but Hobson looked more harried than usual. Victoria felt her mood take a dip. Though Hobson had been slightly less annoying ever since they’d first ventured to Ravenscar Keep, she still didn’t care for him. But Jasper had elected to forgo living in the castle to act as Sanctuary’s permanent keeper and Victoria needed someone with experience to help with her work in the castle. As sleazy as Hobson was, he was surprisingly good at his job. That said, she was certain he had his hands in the pockets every major noble family, both for the families in an attempt to make themselves look better and for Hobson’s personal gain. And she had a list as long as her arm of who could have worked so hard to place him there, just in case it became essential to investigate. (Reaver was near the top of the list—she didn’t care how unlike Reaver it seemed or what Hobson said: _no one_ had that much interest in what Reaver was doing except Reaver himself…and maybe Benjamina, but that was another thing _entirely_.)

“Your Majesty,” Hobson greeted as cheerfully as he could manage.

Victoria sighed and, exhausted, said, “Not today, Hobson.”

Hobson’s beady eyes went wide. “But—”

“But nothing,” the queen replied, too tired to speak above an even tone. She needed to get away from it all—to have a way to distance herself from all this chaos—and to just relax. She needed…Grim. “Clear my schedule. I’m going to be leaving Bowerstone for a while.”

It was Scarlet’s turn to be concerned. Her eyes narrowed. “Where to, Ma’am?”

Victoria stared longingly out the window, knowing she was really being asked why no one had informed them sooner. “Driftwood. I’m going to Driftwood for a while.”

~ * ~

The clatter of hoof beats broke through the still air as dirt, rocks, and clumps of grass were flung skyward behind the horses and their riders. The fresh air was invigorating as it flooded through her lungs and whipped through her hair and, for the first time in a long time, Victoria felt mostly calm. It was heavenly to be out of the castle and away from Bowerstone after so long. Victoria hadn’t felt this free and light in ages.

“Faster, Brewer, we’re gaining on them!” she heard Walter shout from somewhere behind her.

Victoria could feel Grim was beginning to lag with each harsh breath. Every collision of his hooves against the ground was like a shock of thunder. He wasn’t used to being worked this hard. Deciding it was better to forfeit the race than harm her horse, she slowed the Andalusian to a halt and dismounted.

“There’s a good boy,” she murmured, running her fingers comfortingly through his thick, wavy mane as she looked over him critically. Pleased that she could see nothing worrisome, she patted his flank affectionately. “Yeah, you’re alright, aren’t you? You’re just a big softie.”

Grim snorted and tossed his head, prancing in place for a brief second as though disagreeing with Victoria’s assessment. The setting sun made his black hair look almost like a dark, chocolaty brown as she patted him soothingly.

Hoof beats from behind alerted her to Walter’s approach and she half turned to him when he finally drew his own horse to a stop. No matter how many times she saw it, the sight of Sir Walter Beck on a horse was amusing. Tall, muscular, and possessing a _very_ large belly, he simply didn’t look the part. And, frankly, Victoria was _still_ surprised that Brewer—a very old, very plump shire horse—could still carry her friend and mentor with such ease. Walter had elected to join her as soon as she’d announced her plan to leave the castle for a few days and, even though he’d only joined her out of almost paternal worry for her safety, Victoria was exceedingly grateful for his company.

Walter, however, looked concerned as he looked down at her. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” she answered with a half-smile. “Would you mind terribly if we head in?”

Walter assured her that he wouldn’t mind and they slowly made their way back.

They’d been out in the country the past few days, staying longer than anticipated after Walter had informed her how much healthier she looked without the stress of the castle crowding in on her. Letters and paperwork still found their way to her, naturally, but at least she could work on them in peace and the unseasonably warm sunshine instead of the claustrophobic confines of her office. If the town’s people wouldn’t have minded, Victoria might have considered making Driftwood Albion’s new capital. As it was…well, she doubted it would work out very well.

Their cabin was empty but for its housekeeper when they had returned; an apologetic note rested on the kitchen table from Scarlet, who was extremely guilty that the full moon had called her away to be with her family. Victoria understood well enough to not mind—actually, Victoria was happy to let her go with her family for the full moon; the last time they’d been together for it…well, _unsettling_ was putting the experience mildly. There was honestly nothing like seeing the head of your guard turn into a balverine for the first time to put you off going on a quest with them.

After a quick wash, Victoria and Walter spent the evening amid a chorus of laughter and good food. Walter regaled the vagabonds of the town with stories of the old Hero King. Each tale was more florid and ludicrous than the last to the point where even Victoria was doubled over in laughter. She honestly hoped most of these stories weren’t true and that her father hadn’t really been mad enough to try and teach a hobbe to dance. (Though, given his behaviour at times, she would admit that he probably had been.)

Despite the constant demands from children for “just one more story”, the pair soon retired to the front stoop of their cabin; Walter indulging in a pipe as Victoria sipped her somewhat ritual cup of tea. Nero settled in beside them, snuggling up to his mistress; at eleven years old, the collie was arthritic and unable to travel often, which made it a treat when he could join her on a trip. The night dissolved peacefully around them. The scent of Earth, growing things, and ocean water perfumed the air, only to mix pleasantly with the scents of cooking grease and wood smoke. Owls hooted dully in the trees around them and frogs and toads croaked back and forth to each other like gossiping old women at tea. A couple of early-blooming crickets had even dared to venture forth and chirp their songs.

“We’re going to have to go back soon, won’t we?” Victoria asked, staring pensively into her delicate, flower-shaped cup.

“Yes. We can’t avoid the court forever.”

Though she knew Walter was telling the truth, it wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Sometimes…sometimes she truly hated being queen. Regretted it, even. She knew, realistically, that there were few others she would trust with the duty of wearing her family’s crown. Walter and Jasper, yes, but they were getting on in years and neither of them wanted that kind of power. Ben? Page? Sabine? No. She trusted them, yes, but Ben wasn’t the leader type, Page was unable to make the truly difficult choices it took to lead, and Sabine…well, aside from his age, he had people to rule already. And then there was Reaver. Victoria mentally snorted to herself. If she refused to _marry_ the man, she wasn’t about to let him _rule her country_ ; she knew him too well. It would be a disaster of epic proportions. Albion probably wouldn’t survive it.

She wished Logan was still there to give her some brotherly advice. If anyone would understand the weight of being a ruler, it would have been him.

Victoria sipped her tea in silence, occasionally flicking tiny pebbles through the smoke rings Walter was attempting to blow. The small disk at her waist began to glow and hum with energy, making her jump. Though she’d owned the guild seal for almost a decade, it never failed to surprise her when it suddenly flared to life.

“Ah, uh…madam? Madam? Can you hear me?” came Jasper’s slightly nervous voice through the seal.

“I can hear you, Jasper,” Victoria replied soothingly. “Walter is the only one around, if you want to let him hear the news, as well.”

“News?” Walter mouthed, perplexed.

Victoria shrugged in reply.

“Ah, yes. Good evening to you both. I—I do realise the timing is most abrupt, but something very _odd_ is happening to the Sanctuary’s map table,” Jasper told them succinctly.

Victoria hesitated. “What sort of…odd?”

“It’s difficult to say, madam. But it would appear someone is…calling for help.”

“Help?” Walter echoed. “I know I’m mostly unfamiliar with how the table works, but shouldn’t Victoria just receive a new quest if someone really _does_ need help?”

“Normally, well… _yes_. But…it would appear they are using a _guild seal_ or something similar to call,” Jasper clarified, sounding extremely uncomfortable with the situation.

Victoria sat up straighter, suddenly alert. Someone else with a guild seal? Could it possibly be that Albion had another Hero? Or was it some poor fool who’d come across an old artefact and was now in over their head? “Do you know where they are now?”

“Yes, madam; I have been tracking their movements since the first sign of distress.” Jasper paused for a moment; then, as if realizing they were waiting for him to continue, went on: “They are directly northeast of you, at the far edge of Brightwood and moving west toward Bowerstone. They look to be a little over a day’s ride from you.”

“Got it, Jasper.”

“And, do hurry, madam. I believe something is stalking them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SA, a short summary:  
> Victoria: -tries to nope out of her problems-  
> New problems: LOL surprise....
> 
> This chapter is so shooooooooort, omg. This is probably going to be one of those chapters that, despite me not really having a problem with it, I'm gonna end up totally rewriting in a couple years or when the final part of this series is done. Buuuut...this is also the last chapter before the plot starts picking up in earnest, so... -vague gesturing-


	5. 4. Shadow Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves! I wanted to briefly apologise for the unexpected hiatus. I should have left some kind of note, but it happened very abruptly. Unfortunately, I don't have incredibly good news for you. Basically, what happened was that I let my prompts list get out of control--I stopped checking how many I was taking on and, quite abruptly, I had about 50 open projects I was working on. So, right now, I'm trying to focus on getting that list down and on prepping for April's NaNo. Updates will probably sporadic until around May. Sorry for the inconvenience. I hope I'll be back to regular posting sooner than intended and that you'll enjoy the chapter! Thanks for taking a moment to read this! Now: onward.

Victoria didn’t remember making her way past her cabin, through the cluster of caravans that was Driftwood’s town centre, and up to her horse. All she knew was that, one moment, she was listening to Jasper, and the next she and Walter were hurrying to saddle Grim.

“Take Nero and return to Bowerstone. Someone with a guild seal is probably a Hero; if they’re in trouble and they need help, we need to be prepared,” she instructed as Walter helped to propel her atop Grim.

“And what if _you_ need help?” the old soldier enquired, clearly not pleased about being left behind.

“I can take care of myself,” Victoria said tartly, regretting it a moment later. “I’m sorry,” she added. “But time _is_ of the essence and _you’re_ the only one who can take care of things back at home.”

Walter waved the statement off, handing Victoria her reins. “I know, I know. Go. Go on. Be careful.”

Victoria nodded once and ushered Grim into a steady gallop. Neither she nor Walter were any good with goodbyes—they felt too formal, and they had said them too often to friends and family in the past—they saw no point in exchanging them and opening up that possibility that it may be their last.

Victoria tore down the roads, Grim’s long legs eating up the distance with ease. They raced past homes and patches of forest. Poppies and wildflowers clung to the roadsides in a veritable kaleidoscope of colour against the green backdrop of foliage. Every once in a while, Grim would begin showing signs of fatigue and Victoria would slow him to a mild trot until Grim seemed anxious to go faster. They continued on in that manner for several hours, only stopping during their few and far between opportunities to collect water.

Slowly, the sky began to lighten above them. The world began to turn away from an ink-smothered surrealism into a watery, pastel-touched landscape. It was only at midday, the partially hidden sun shining at its zenith as it struggled to penetrate the soft, cottony, grey-tinged clouds, that she gave in and let both herself and her horse settle down for a short nap.

She awoke to darkness.

Victoria’s first, rather foolish thought was that she had slept all day. It was much to her confusion when, locating her pocket watch in her bag, she found it was only four hours after she’d laid down to nap. So why, she wondered, was it dark enough to be night? She was greeted with the answer when she stepped out of her shelter. Instead of the delicate, fluffy wisps of cloud she’d seen earlier, the sky was choked with a thick, swirling mass of pewter, violet, and indigo. She couldn’t help but frown to herself. Something wasn’t right here; this storm had come out of nowhere. At that thought, something stirred in the back of her mind. Victoria tried to brush it away, but, like a cat uncoiling from slumber, it was not to be deterred. It seemed to stretch before sitting at attention in its designated spot. _Something is coming_ , it hissed at her from the depths of her mind. _Listen…._

Victoria paused in packing her shelter for a moment to humour the voice. Before a storm, Albion usually seemed busier with birds and other small creatures taking cover. Not now. There were no animals scurrying about. No wind blaring through the trees. The only sounds in the world were the distant rumble of thunder and her heart pounding in her ears.

“I think you’re right,” she murmured aloud, more to hear something than because she needed to. Rushing to pack her things, she hurried to get back on the road. There was no time to waste.

~ * ~

It was absolutely _dismal_ out tonight, Reaver decided from his perch on the edge of the dock. The weather would break soon, unleashing a torrential downpour—he could just _feel_ it in the change of the air as of late—but he had _other_ , more important things to worry about. Like gathering information.

_Why_ so many people assumed he was merely a social ornament—in the _castle_ , that is; most of _Albion_ had just deemed him trouble (and rightly so)—was _quite_ beyond his capacity. Well, if _they_ wouldn’t tell him anything that was going on, then he could find out on his own. He _did_ have his methods, after all, and it wasn’t like he was _entirely_ dependent on the monarchy. Besides, he was waiting for his guests to arrive and he was _bored_. Which led him to his current situation: sitting on a dock and waiting, while being careful not to touch the water as he hummed.

Mid-tune, he changed what he was humming. The new tune was sharper, haunting, and Reaver fought back a smirk when he saw something bright flash in the water before him. _Right on schedule_. As per proper custom, he pulled a long silver necklace from his coat pocket to let it dip ever so slightly into the water.

A split second later, he had to yank the necklace back to avoid both it and him being dragged into the lake as a pair of pale hands shot out of the water.

“It appears I was correct in my assumptions,” he cheerfully observed as he watched the girl who was nervously staring at him. Reaver had been coming here, to Bower Lake, for the past three nights—ever since one of his less-savoury underlings had informed him that an entire bandit camp had vanished into the Bower River overnight. All in all, once he factored in the siren that had burst into Bowerstone Castle’s throne room, it had been very _easy_ to put two and two together.

_This_ siren was frantic, her very short mop of icy blond hair was wild and plastered to her face. “Give! Give it to me! Mine!”

“Ah, ah, _ah_. I think not.” Reaver taunted, holding the necklace just out of her reach. He had to play this carefully. If he didn’t…she’d just pull him under and that would be the end of a lot of things. “I need some information from you first.”

Two other sirens broke the water nearby, only their eyes and the very tops of their heads visible above the lake’s mostly still surface.

The blond shook her head at him. “Give that, yes?”

“No,” he answered as if talking to a small child. “A siren came to speak with the Queen of Albion. Why?”

“Arella. Yes, yes. _Let me go!_ ”

Reaver had never seen a siren act like this before. Usually, a siren was seductive and sweet, catering easily to the person they were talking to if only to get…whatever it was they wanted from them. They were never this erratic and evasive.

“Why do you want to go?” Reaver tried again, trying to charm her.

The siren, however, just stared at the necklace in his hands and whined low in her throat. “Albion is no longer safe for us,” she said quickly. “For anyone. Arella was long charged with warning those who walk on land.”

“Warning us against _what_?”

The silence stretched on as the siren did little more than attempt to grab the necklace from him. Sighing in annoyance, he lowered the chain into her greedy hands. However, he underestimated how fast she was and, a second later, Reaver felt a strong, damp hand wrap around his wrist and yank him forward to the very edge of the dock.

“We do not speak of it. It knows no fear or pain, only wrath and hunger,” she hissed to him. She pulled a thin bone dagger from a sheath on her arm and carved a symbol into his palm. It reminded him of a child’s rendition of a sun: each of the rays curling in on the central sphere. She didn’t give him much time to think on it before she quickly kissed his already healing palm and, the faintest smear of blood staining her thin lips, whispered, “ _Run_. He is coming.”

~ * ~

Victoria was soaked to the marrow. The weather had broken several hours ago and, since then, the dark sky had incessantly dropped bucket after enormous bucket of rain down upon her.

It was slowly gaining on six in the morning (if her pocket watch was to be believed, for the sky was showing no signs of growing lighter), and it had been over a full day since her departure from Driftwood. If she was honest, Victoria hadn’t been in such a bad mood in a long time. She was tired and hungry and her annoyance was ratcheting up every hour that went by without a sign of the person she was supposed to be helping. She pulled Grim to a halt under a tree and removed her guild seal from her belt. “Jasper? Am I any closer?”

“Ah, yes, madam,” Jasper said quickly. “Within twenty metres.”

Victoria stared around at the thick wall of deep green around her, attempting to peer through the continuously falling sheets of thick, silvery rain. Though she saw no lightning, a sudden rumble of thunder crashed through the air around her. “Jasper, are you quite certain the map is functioning properly? I don’t see anything.”

“ _Quite_ certain.”

Outside of her cover, the rain had finally begun to slow, its fat drops falling only slightly less frequently. The queen dismounted, deciding that, if she didn’t come across anyone soon, she was going to get a nap and go home. Precisely in that order. Victoria tried not to feel too guilty about that decision.

As she fumbled in her pack for water, she muttered, “Jasper, you haven’t gotten a call in hours. They might not even _be_ here any longer.”

“They _are_ there, your majesty,” her butler replied somewhat tartly. Victoria instantly felt guilty. Jasper had never purposely steered her wrong.

Muttering to herself, she replaced her water and refastened her guild seal to her belt.

_Something_ is _coming_ , the voice in the back of her mind said again, nudging her straight ahead and a little to the left.

Victoria gave the voice a little mental shove back into its allotted corner, but headed in the direction it had pointed out. The earlier wind was non-existent as she stepped out from her cover. Feeling quite foolish, she tentatively called out to the bank of trees and shrubs before her: “Hello?! Is anyone there?!”

There was no response from the rain-sodden greenery.

Shaking her head, she made to return to Grim. _There’s nothing he—what was that?_ Victoria whirled around at the sound of breaking brambles and sticks. Alarmed and decidedly creeped out, Victoria pulled on her Will, a small ball of flames forming in the palm of her hand. Rain drops sizzled as they hit the flame, causing wisps of steam to rise from between her fingers. “Hello?”

There was a great thrashing and crashing of branches before a hooded figure emerged from the foliage. They stumbled, collapsing for a moment before regaining their feet and hurtling on. Victoria darted out into the rain, extinguishing her spell, and met them halfway.

The figure’s hood slipped back as they collapsed into Victoria’s arms, and the queen received a sharp shock of surprise. “Theresa?”

“Hero…we must go,” the blind seeress murmured, pain choking her voice as she tried and failed to regain her feet once more. “You are not safe here.”

Victoria was about to reply that she wasn’t safe anywhere and that she was more worried about the state Theresa was in when the wind abruptly picked up. What had been a cool breeze had suddenly become an icy gale, driving the rain almost completely sideways. There was a faint reddish haze on the horizon, growing stronger by the minute. However…it wasn’t coming from the direction the sun should have been rising in.

_He’s coming. You must leave now_ , the voice in her head urgently hissed, giving her a mental tug back toward Grim.

“What’s coming?” Victoria asked aloud, wanting an answer from whoever would give it to her as she helped Theresa up and began to lead her to Grim.

The voice didn’t reply and Theresa only shook her head, trying to walk faster despite her limping. Grim was on edge as Victoria struggled with letting the seeress mount him—Theresa may have looked as thin as a barren branch, but she was dead weight in her current state. An evil red glow had devoured the horizon by the time Victoria had managed to wrap the reins around Theresa in a make-shift harness.

“Theresa, you need to tell me—”

“It’s too late,” Theresa said quietly as she turned, unseeingly, toward the forest across the road from them. “He has found us.”

Victoria’s heart seemed to be lodged in her throat as she turned around. Something was oozing out from between the tree trunks: a thick, viscous liquid that bubbled like a witch’s cauldron. Victoria had seen something like it before; a muck that had been a sign of the Crawler’s occupation of an area, but the colour was all wrong. Instead of the black, tar-like ooze she was familiar with, it was the dark, rusty red of old blood.

No one had to tell Victoria twice that they needed to leave; she immediately mounted Grim and sent him into a gallop.

“Make for higher ground,” Theresa instructed.

“Why?!”

“He cannot tolerate light and the sunrise is not far off.”

Victoria didn’t require further prompting. She yanked on Grim’s reins, driving him northeast toward the slopes of Mistpeak’s mountains. Trees raced past them in a black blur, not yet touched by the faint glow of the monastral blue sky.

Grim’s hooves churned up clouds of dust behind them, but the bloody ooze flowing after them was still gaining on them. They were trapped in a scarlet haze of red mist and black smoke. Enormous clawed hands rose from the ooze to grasp at them and thick tendrils of mist swatted at them as though they were flies. Soon enough, they began running out of room to manoeuvre as the road grew both steeper and smaller across.

The sun wasn’t rising fast enough for Victoria.

“Theresa?” the queen called to the woman clinging to her. There was no answer. Alarmed, Victoria shouted the other woman’s name again.

Theresa’s voice was worryingly faint as she replied, “I am still with you, Hero.”

Victoria pulled a hard right to dodge a reaching hand and winced as Grim whinnied in protest. “Theresa, can you get us out of here?”

“Not while he is following so closely.”

“But if we lost him for a moment…?”

Theresa murmured something that sounded like a note of assent and Victoria directed Grim off the main path and onto a side trail. There was only one spell she knew that might help them. She had discovered it in one of her father’s journals and had barely been able to learn it. Given her limited knowledge, it was truly a slim chance, but if she had room to try _something_.

Birds rose in clouds around them as the ooze wrapped around the trees they’d been nesting in and, through the foliage, Victoria could hear the sound of panicking animals trying to escape. _What_ is _this thing?_ Turning yet another corner, Victoria found herself staring down at a small valley. _Perfect_. Grim wasn’t doing too well as she urged him onwards. She desperately wanted to stop and make certain he was alright—to let him rest—but she knew that would get all three of them killed. They had to keep going. _Hold on. Hold on, we’re almost home._ “Theresa, hide your face!”

The moment Victoria felt Theresa do as she said, the younger woman flung one of her hands behind her and pulled on her Will. Her spell sparked out on her fingertips. _Come on! Come on!_ Her fear jump started her magic and light—pure, blinding white light—burst from her hand.

An inhuman screech rent the air as pain split through her head. The haze of red around them thickened, trying to fight back. The blood-like ooze rose up higher and higher, threatening to smother them.

Victoria had lost control of her Will. The spell tore, burning, through her veins and she was forced to close her eyes against the light pouring from her. Through the roar of sound around them she only just heard herself shout to their unseen foe: “ _Back to the Void with you!_ ”

And everything suddenly went silent.

Victoria felt her Will ebb to nothingness as her body’s energy faded into an all-consuming lethargy.

The faint hum of teleportation filled her ears and, unsure how she was still conscious, Victoria found herself surrounded by comforting warmth. She felt Theresa dismount but couldn’t find the voice to tell her not to. As Grim began moving again, Victoria forced herself to open her eyes. Lush green trees, sprawling pastel mansions, and vivid blue water spread out before her eyes only just touched by the first rays of dawn.

“B-Bower Lake?” she choked out, too tired to feel surprised.

“Reaver’s manor is empty, Hero,” Theresa replied, some of her strength returning to her. “We both must rest before travelling further.”

Just before Victoria fell into unconsciousness, she realised that there was a problem with Theresa’s plan: someone was already waiting for them just inside the manor’s gates.


	6. 5. An Unexpected Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Victoria slowly awoke to what she assumed was the first rays of dawn. Blinking a couple times to help wake herself up, she realised that she was not, in fact, looking out at the horizon, but staring up at a too-realistic, eerily beautiful painting of rough seas at dawn that someone had laboriously painted onto the underside of a bed’s wooden canopy. Shifting slightly, she let out a hiss of breath and tried to get a better look at the room she was in. The bed she occupied was done up in various hues of blue fabric, framed in dark wood. Navy satin and black lace drapes were hung around the bed, mirroring the colouring of the heavy, velvet curtains flanking the enormous windows on the far side of the room. The silvery blue walls were light in contrast to the dark-varnished wood that made up most of the furniture and still, as she stared about, taking it all in, she had no idea where she was. All she knew was that the room was clearly nautical in theme and, since themed rooms were currently very fashionable (and, by extension, very expensive), she had to be in a noble’s house.

Slowly, the queen sat up, her body aching at her every movement. Memory of what had happened was foggy, at best. She vaguely remembered riding Grim, trying to get him to run as fast as he could away from…from… _something_. And there was something about Theresa, though she couldn’t remember _what_.

Halfway through rubbing her eyes, she paused, her gaze falling on a vase of black roses. Everything suddenly came flooding back to her. Finding Theresa, that ooze that had tried to devour them…and that spell she’d lost control of. That must have been the reason she had fallen unconscious, as well as the reason she could barely remember what had happened. Though that still failed to answer the question of where she was. She returned her gaze to the roses, wondering if they had made it to the abandoned mansion or if someone else had come to their aid, and decided it was time to get answers for herself.

She shoved the bedspread off of her. With a little effort, Victoria swung her feet off the mattress and onto the floor.  An uncomfortable twinge pulsed through her gut when she realised that someone had changed her out of her travelling gear and into a silk chemise. Forcing herself not to think about some stranger seeing her in a state of undress, she got awkwardly to her feet, swaying a bit, and, not seeing anything with which to cover the chemise with, stumbled toward the door.

After the mid-day brightness of the bedroom, the hall seemed incredibly dim. The air smelled familiar with a mix of expensive perfume, pipe smoke, and exotic incense;  Victoria recognized the paintings on the walls. In fact, now that she was out of that room, Victoria realised that she knew exactly where she was and she knew the house to some small degree. _We made it, then_. All that was left was to find where Theresa was. And find out who was currently living here if Reaver was supposed to be gone.

She crept down hallways, marvelling at the silence around her even while it put her on edge. Even though she came across no one, she wished for her weapons. Though she had lived with Reaver for almost a year, this was _not_ the house she had lived in. The only time she had ever been there was for a masquerade that had nearly killed her and she hadn’t been able to do very much exploring at the time. Nor had she been adventurous enough to venture back into the house immediately afterwards—not to mention that there had never been any _reason_ to come back; she knew where Reaver was and so why bother looking into his previous residence? Maybe, she reasoned, that had been a mistake.

As she neared the end of the hall, she became aware of the sound of voices up ahead of her. Intrigued, she sped up just slightly and entered a small sitting room. Two men stood in the centre of the room: one in a well-fitting footman’s uniform with a small stack of packages under his arm, and the other…

“ _Reaver?_ ” Victoria muttered, surprised.

However, the second the name left her mouth, she knew she had to be wrong. Though this man’s face was very similar to Reaver’s, it was also rounder with genuine youth and he was missing the mark on his left cheek bone (freckles, instead, dusted his skin), and his eyes were a bright, clear blue. There was also the little issue of this man having hair that was such a light brown that it was nearly blonde, and a completely different hair style than Reaver. Either Reaver was going for a totally different look, or…or…she didn’t know _what_ was going on. _Denial will get you nowhere._

“Oh! My lady; Queen Victoria,” he said, starting when he noticed her standing in the doorway. His voice was oddly welcoming and cheerful, but also distinctly low-class. Taken aback, Victoria watched him hand off a paper to the footman, dismissing him with a thankful nod, and stepped up to Victoria—this close up, she realised he was over six inches shorter than Reaver and his suit was actually a butler’s uniform. “We didn’t expect you to be awake for at least a few more hours.”

Victoria knew perfectly well that she ought to ask what happened to Theresa or to thank him for giving care…or even to give voice to any of the numerous questions she had running through her mind, but, instead, the only thing she managed to blurt out was: “Who, exactly, are you?”

His expression went blank for a moment before, regaining his composure, he said: “Oh, right! Everyone calls me Jack, but…you can call me anything you’d like, Your Majesty.”

Victoria stared at him, wondering how anyone could sound so sincere and honestly happy to help. _Did I wake up in another world?_ she thought blankly, confused by him. _There can’t really be_ two _of them…right?_ She was about to ask him what was going on when she noticed his gaze snap to someone standing behind her and Jack’s demeanour grew more professional in bearing, even if his expression seemed more contrite. Resigning herself to whatever may be standing behind her—and having a bad feeling that she knew _exactly_ who it was—she slowly turned around.

“Well, well, isn’t _this_ unexpected?” Reaver said, his annoyingly familiar smirk falling into place.

_It is, isn’t it?_ Victoria thought, forcing herself to not glare at him with the reminder that he had taken her in when she was unconscious. _You’re not supposed to_ be _here_. Suppressing a sigh and forgoing a greeting, she said as politely as she could manage, “Where is Theresa? I need to speak with her.”

Personally, she felt that was an understatement. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so confused and she was fairly certain that Theresa definitely owed her far more than a simple explanation could ever sum up. She wasn’t about to _say_ that in front of everyone else though. It was best to keep her confusion to herself until she was able to be alone with Theresa.

“Ah.” Reaver paused, glancing between her and Jack, who was staring blankly into space. He edged around her, making it no secret that he was heading for the door across the room as he replied, “Come along, dear; we ought to talk while we still can.” He half turned back to them, ignoring Victoria’s scowl, and added, “Oh, and Jack?”

“Yes?” Jack piped up, snapping back to reality.

“You know what to do.”

Jack replied in the affirmative as Victoria finally started after Reaver. She wondered vaguely what Reaver wanted Jack to do, but didn’t let herself think too deeply on it. It wasn’t something she’d probably ever be able to find out. Plus, there was something else about their exchange that was weird to her: why was Jack so informal? _They_ have _to be related somehow_ , she thought. _It’s the only thing that explains their similarities and lack of formality._ Her mind hit a road block and she mentally stumbled. _Oh, Avo, don’t tell me he actually has a_ child _that is younger than I am._ Thankfully, she didn’t get to think on that line of thought for long. Logic stepped in and gave her a quick mental slap. _What’s wrong with you? Think about Theresa! You need to find out where she is and how she’s doing. She’s probably injured_.

Barely focusing on the world around her, she followed Reaver through a couple more hallways—down the main staircase, through the front room, and finally into his study. When she finally drew herself out of her paranoid thoughts, she found herself taken aback. This study was nothing like the one she was used to. The room was large and mostly empty but for the bookcases on the far walls and the small scattering of furniture that made the room look barren. Whereas the study she usually spoke to him in—in that house that was almost half a day’s carriage ride from where she currently was—was smaller and almost claustrophobic. A statue of a bird-like creature sat in the centre of the room on a pedestal; it made Victoria’s blood run cold, reminding her of the Crawler’s minions.

Victoria drew in a quick breath. She turned to demand to know why Reaver would have such a thing, but was cut off as he elegantly gestured to the chairs by the currently empty fireplace.

“Sit,” he said, turning toward the liquor cabinet in a far corner, “and explain.”

_You’re getting a little arrogant, aren’t you?_ she thought. _You keep taking liberties like we’re more than occasional lovers. Is there_ something _you need to_ tell _me, Reaver?_ Though she felt they’d made great progress in their relationship over the years, she didn’t really feel they were close enough for him to demand answers from her. Perhaps if they were friends, but…no; they could be called allies or partners, maybe, but not friends. And Reaver had never given her any indication that he wanted her friendship. She didn’t think she owed him any more than she was already giving. “I don’t see why I should need to explain anything. I believe I made my intentions clear when I asked to be taken to Theresa. By the way, you’re supposed to _tell me_ when you move to a different residence.”

“Oh, _no_ , my sweet. You see, you were the one who showed up unannounced and half-dead at my door. Queen or not, I deserve an explanation for all the agony you’ve inflicted upon me, _ma chere_ …and remuneration.”

_Were we really in such bad shape?_ she wondered, intrigued. She decided to ignore that he hadn’t commented on the moving bit. “Look, I don’t know what you think I know, but I’m in the dark as well. Just…tell me how Theresa is and what has happened while we’ve been here and…and I’ll say what I can.”

He gave her a look that plainly said she was going first and, rolling her eyes, Victoria recounted what she could remember about encountering Theresa. Oddly enough, Reaver didn’t interrupt her. Victoria couldn’t recall the last time he’d failed to do that. But he seemed intrigued even if he wasn’t offering her an opinion. She wondered if he noticed the similarities between…whatever she’d encountered and the Crawler. She frowned, wondering at the reason behind that. It had to mean something, right?

When she was finished, he remained silent a long moment, clearly contemplating something, before his focus returned to her. “You have a way with attracting mayhem, don’t you? As does Theresa, naturally. The _hag_ is asleep, by the way. Or… _was_ last I bothered to look in on her. You’ll understand that I’ve not done so more often, I’m sure.”

“She was injured before. Has she healed up at all?”

“I haven’t bothered to check.”

“Haven’t you listened to a word I said? She needs a doctor, Reaver. A doctor and a place to rest while she recovers, if only so I can know what happened and what was chasing her. And I need your help to ensure she gets that,” Victoria said crossly. “It’s the least you could do.”

“I _hardly_ think that a physician and a nap are going to do anything for her one way or the other.”

“ _Reaver_ ,” she snapped, as though saying his name was admonishment and warning enough. “I am _trying_ to be nice and ask for your assistance. She wasn’t well earlier and if that thing harmed her, who knows what it could be doing to her.”

“Must you always be such a bleeding heart?” he scolded, a frown on his lips though his expression was otherwise unreadable. “You know perfectly well how strong her healing abilities are. Why not simply wait until the witch is awake and cast her out? It’s not as though she’s _ever_ done anything beneficial to you. She’s been nothing but trouble for every Hero that’s crossed her path. You and I both know she’ll eagerly cast us into deeper trouble without a second thought. Therefore, I _refuse_ to spend my time and energy on her.”

Victoria struggled to keep from outright glaring at him as she leaned against the armchair before her. She grasped it tightly, her knuckles turning white against the upholstery as her fingers began to ache from strain. “I’m not saying you should completely suspend everything in your life until Theresa is healed. I’d be glad to move her to the castle’s infirmary—Avo knows we’ve probably trespassed on you long enough—but Theresa, at least, will have to remain here for a while longer until I can move her. I’m _not_ comfortable being on the roads with her in this state.”

Reaver huffed, half-rolling his eyes as he looked at her as though she were a stubborn child. “And what if she never recovers, hmm? How then will you _compensate_ me for this trouble? That woman is a _plague_ and I _refuse_ to be furtherly exposed to her.”

“Some would say the same about you,” the queen retorted shortly, cocking an eyebrow at him as she frowned up at him. She didn’t feel like discussing his constant need for ‘compensation’ today. All she wanted was to end the conversation and to see how Theresa was faring.

The silence around them stretched for a long while—Victoria glaring into the top of the chair’s back as Reaver, she could tell from the weight of his gaze on the top of her head, watched her in turn. A variety of remarks on his character and all that he’d done that she had heard of or seen sifted through her mind and she dismissed all of them. Out right picking a fight was one way to get Reaver to immediately turn Theresa away. Sure, Victoria could play the royalty card, but who was to say Theresa wouldn’t just ‘mysteriously’ vanish or worsen if she did so?

Victoria opened her mouth to say something, still unsure what _exactly_ to say, just as Reaver clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Oh, _very well_ , love,” he said with a nonchalant wave of his leather-gloved hands. He sounded exasperated and annoyed, but he was acting far too careless to really have meant it any longer. He seemed oblivious to Victoria’s relief and she almost missed the mischievousness that leaked into his voice until it was too late. “I’ll see to the barmy Seer’s health and such, but I expect _ample_ remuneration!” His smirk indicated he already had _quite_ an idea for how he wished to be paid. The flush that had crept onto Victoria’s cheeks seemed only to encourage him. “Of course, I will endeavour to work my _hardest_ to ensure you are _absolutely_ satisfied, Your Majesty. Naturally, I am your most devoted of footmen; your _pleasure_ is one of my only goals.”

“Oh, _stop,_ ” Victoria huffed, feigning annoyance though her face was burning at his teasing. She barely managed to keep from burying her face in her hands and giggling at the awkwardness of the situation. She didn’t know how he’d managed to turn the conversation from serious to lewd in the blink of an eye, but she did know that feigning annoyance and turning it back around on him was about the only way she could handle the embarrassment. “Why I ever thought we could have a civilized discussion about all this, as two adults should, I don’t know. You’re appalling. …And _you_ wonder why I don’t like you; tsk, _honestly_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he admonished, practically purring in a mixture of amusement and overt sensuality. “You know perfectly well that you will _always_ be fond of me. You adore me.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but couldn’t keep from smiling.

~ * ~

“Jack?” Victoria called as she worked to saddle Grim. She’d found Jack loitering near the kitchen and had quickly enlisted him to assist in her return to Bowerstone. Now that she’d gotten somewhat used to him, she was starting to think he and Reaver didn’t look so similar after all. Similar facial structure and features, yes, but everything else was…different. It didn’t keep her from having questions, but it was much less jarring. She wondered if, eventually, she’d stop noticing their similarities at all.

“Coming, ma’am!” he called back from the opposite end of the stable. He hurried back, bridle in hand, and reached her just as she was finishing her final checks on Grim’s saddle bags. He waited until she’d fitted the bit into Grim’s mouth and had started buckling the bridle into place before enquiring, “So…when should I tell him—” he nodded towards the manor— “that you’re to return?”

Victoria cocked a brow at him from the other side of her horse. She was tempted to reply sarcastically and to tell him that she would be back when she got back, but she reminded herself that he was not Reaver and that, so far, Jack had been very sweet to her, which made him undeserving of rudeness. She sighed heavily and mounted her horse as smoothly as she could muster. “I haven’t a clue how quickly I’ll return. Could be by dinner, if I find my friend quickly enough, but it could be well into the night, or even tomorrow, if he’s not available or if something comes up. Tell him not to wait. I’ll return for Theresa as quickly as possible.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, obviously concerned, and started to say something. Victoria didn’t catch more than an odd sound that could have been the start of absolutely any letter in the alphabet before cracking her reins and urging Grim forward with haste. Forced to abandon his protest, Jack bolted for the gate, opened it, and threw himself out of the way just in time to avoid nearly being trampled. _A normal person would have known they couldn’t do that safely and wouldn’t have tried_ , she thought as they galloped down the road toward Bowerstone. _He not only got it open quick enough…he got out of the way, as well. Interesting_.

She decided to ponder Jack’s reflexes at a further date. For the moment, she needed to try to resolve exactly how she was going to get her plan to work. On one hand, she could go see her friend first, but, if the siren was still asleep, that would mean bringing him back to the castle was a waste of time. On the other, if she returned to the castle alone and something came up, she could be detained by Hobson wanting her to work on nonsense or by some random noble wanting to settle a dispute. Having someone with her meant that her people would have to work around _their_ schedule, instead of the schedule Hobson would have liked her to have. _Ugh, I don’t want to waste his time_ , she grumbled to herself. But, even as she thought it, she knew she had no intention of returning to the castle alone.

They hurtled past Millfield’s tiny cemetery and up the pot-holed road leading in to Bowerstone. The forest lining the road with enormous pines and mossy stones seemed darker than usual; its dimness deeper than the dusk still several hours away. Something felt off with Albion. It was almost as though everything was on edge; waiting, wondering. Concerned they might get eaten. And, though being eaten had always been a bit of a concern for most of the country’s residents, there was something different about the sensation this time. She couldn’t place it…and she wasn’t certain she wanted to.

Bowerstone, however, was much the same as ever. Once they arrived, she carefully navigated Grim through the mazes of narrow streets, trying not to accidentally knock someone over.

In the Market around her, vendors were selling anything and everything a person could want. Stalls sold cheap gifts and easy-to-eat foods while, nearby, stores with expensive, elegant clothing advertised their wares to anyone who could afford it. A blacksmith had long taken residence near the old warehouses on the opposite side of the main square, allowing an alchemy shop and a bookstore to take a more central focus. Down by the docks, one could get fish and spices for a good price…provided they got there early enough that any fish would still remain. Victoria also knew that, if she were to head directly through the square, she’d have a straight shot to the castle. Instead, she made a right and slowly made her way into the Industrial district.

The Market’s bright colours slowly faded. The flowers replaced with tangles of weeds and patches of dry, dead grass. The air was thicker here, the further into Industrial she got, and the river somewhat murky. Everything in Industrial had been touched by grime and dirt; its buildings stained by the coal smoke of dozens of factories and its people struggling with poverty. That said, the district had changed a great deal lately. When she’d first become queen, most of the houses were nearly in ruins, boarded up and empty, and most of the populace were on the streets, starving or dying of illness. Now, the homes were liveable and families could actually afford to send their children to school without sacrificing having enough food to feed their entire family. People looked happier, healthier, and, most importantly, people weren’t dying in the streets with nowhere to go. It made her happy to see. If nothing else could be said for her rule, at least she’d made some good come from Industrial.

That didn’t mean the district was completely safe and that nothing bad could happen to a person there, but progress was a slow thing…right?

She made her way through Industrial, picking her routes with care. Most people were too busy with their daily lives to pay her any mind, and those who did notice who she was reacted with an extra glance sent in her direction and occasionally a smile or a tip of a hat. Victoria inclined her head in return. She was thankful for the lack of a scene being caused. It was hard enough to find her way without being mobbed.

Her destination was a row of terraced houses that sat on the invisible border between Industrial and the Old Quarter. She’d tried going through the Old Quarter before, but the streets there, despite having been rebuilt recently, were even worse of a maze. She’d been lost until someone took pity on her and helped her along. It was easier to go the long way.

Eventually she found her way to the quiet street. No one was around as she led Grim over the cobbles and towards the house she needed. On first glance, the neighbourhood seemed well off; the pale stones of the houses were cleaner than in most neighbourhoods and the fenced trees along the sidewalk had leaves that were green, instead of brown with pollution and a lack of light. But everything was eerily still here. Victoria had rarely, if ever, seen more than one or two other people wandering the street at one time…and even they had refrained from making noise as they walked.

Still, far be it for her to tell someone to move just because their neighbourhood creeped her out. At least it wasn’t foggy today.

She directed Grim to a stop and disembarked from the saddle, loosely fastening his reins to a post. Brushing dust from her trousers, Victoria hurried up the front steps and knocked on the door. It opened almost a full minute later.

Dr. Alexander Mulch was not the sort of man one was used to seeing in Bowerstone Industrial. No, perhaps it was more accurate to say that Alex was just an odd sort of bird in general. He stood in the doorway looking more like a banker in his three-piece charcoal suit than a doctor and wearing an expression that was almost politely blank. His hair had been a vibrantly dyed shade of white for as long as she’d known him and was, for once, casually ruffled.

“This is…highly irregular,” Alex observed after a moment had passed. He adjusted the knot of his navy ascot—fastidiously, not nervously—as he stared thoughtfully at her.

Victoria half-shrugged, having expected him to react like this. They rarely met unexpectedly and usually only corresponded through letters. “Sorry, but this was unexpected for me as well. Are you busy?”

“…no. Come in,” he replied laconically, stepping aside to allow her to pass.

Victoria entered the foyer, unbuttoning her coat and handing it to him when he offered to take it. Alex’s house was far grander than most doctors she’d visited, which, she supposed, was even stranger when one considered Alex took in every single patient for free. Or it _would_ have been had his sister, Rowan, not enjoyed speaking to candidly about her big brother. Apparently the Mulches, semi-distant cousins of hers though they were, were ridiculously wealthy and had long since made plans to ensure their children would inherit as much as possible. Though his parents were known to be greedy and snobbish—some would even say cold—Alex had been doted upon when he was in agreeable health. They’d been especially enthusiastic about his medicine degree…right up until he’d asked for the rest of his inheritance, disowned his parents and younger brother, and switched his degree to psychology. It was a better approach than Rowan’s—she had simply stolen her share and, when confronted, threatened her parents (with something she would not reveal to Victoria) to keep them off her back—but it still seemed remarkably cold to her. Then again, Victoria had met their youngest brother, Pierce, just once a few years ago for an interview and, out of all three siblings, he’d been the most insufferable and, according to the other two, borne of the same mould as their parents, so Victoria didn’t feel too bad.

“My apologies that it’s so dark,” he remarked, slipping past her to lead her through the dimness and into the living room, “but I wasn’t expecting company. I can put on some tea, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you. And…please don’t worry about it. Rowan mentioned you get headaches on occasion; I don’t mind a little less light.”

Rowan’s exact words had been more along the lines of “Alex was hit by a carriage when he was little, nearly had his skull crushed, but he recovered well enough. Just a bit sickly, you see. Just let him rest if he needs it or if his head hurts him. Still the best doctor I know, though; do you want his address?” Victoria could tell by the tension in Alex’s shoulders and the slight tightening of his jaw that he could imagine just what his sister had said.

That tension vanished as he sat down in one of the little chairs near the dying fireplace to be replaced with a polite half-smile. He didn’t wait before enquiring: “So…what did you need to speak about?”

Victoria sat near him, casting a quick glance around the room. Ceiling-high bookcases lined the back wall and followed the wall down to the far end of the fireplace on one side, heavy drapes having been closed over the windows that separated them. A pianoforte sat pressed against a side wall, looking rarely used ( _maybe only when Rowan visits_ , she wondered, seeming to recall that the other girl could play, though she was not entirely certain). All in all, it was a very tiny and tidy room, not one that seemed to encourage more company, and that made it seem oddly cosy. Still, she was unable to relax in the chair, concerned Alex might throw her out after hearing her say.

“Have you heard about what happened at the castle a couple weeks ago?”

“You’re referring to the…siren?” he replied almost delicately. His speech was slow and purposeful, as though every word had been given a great deal of thought beforehand. “Yes, I had heard.”

“She’s still unconscious…and she’s not getting any better. And now someone else seems to be in the same condition,” she confided. She bit her lip, hesitating, before blurting out: “No one will come and evaluate the siren—everyone is afraid of her. I’m concerned they won’t come to evaluate anyone else who may be affected similarly out of the same fear. Rowan said you were studying to be a physician before you chose psychology and that you hadn’t picked a specific field to—”

He raised a hand to stop her as revelation dawned upon him. “You are requesting I be the one to evaluate their health and report it to you in case it requires a more serious treatment.” Alex waited for her answering nod before adding, “You _do_ understand that I never finished studying for that degree, yes? Strictly speaking, I am _not_ qualified to give you a diagnosis for anything other than mental health problems.”

“You’re also the only one who isn’t utterly terrified of them.”

He sat there a moment, frowning into the fireplace. Victoria felt guilty for the insistence—after all, he clearly wasn’t feeling well—but she also wanted to figure out what had harmed Theresa and the siren before another person was…attacked? Infected? She didn’t know how to refer to it. And, honestly, she wasn’t certain Alex would be able to help her. _Exactly_ how far into his degree had he gotten before switching? There was a pretty big difference between someone who had nearly graduated and those who had only been studying for a year or so. She knew perfectly well that Alex was brilliant and a very good psychologist…but how competent of a doctor was he?

Before her doubt could finish making her reconsider asking him, Alex’s classically featured face scrunched with frustration before relaxing once more with what could only be called resignation.

“Very well. Give me a moment to get my things.”

~ * ~

Alex always felt very small upon visiting Bowerstone Castle. It was an odd sensation; he’d always been tall and broad-shouldered, sturdily built in a way that didn’t suit his profession. Unassuming, some might have said, but no one had thought to call him “fragile” in years. However, the second he found himself on the castle grounds, he felt like a sickly child once more. In contrast, Victoria seemed all the more powerful. He couldn’t decide if it was psychosomatic—he knew she was a Hero and this was her home and so he had built up this grand thought that the Castle was impregnable, which, in turn, meant Victoria was all but invincible there—or if there really was some sort of odd magic at work. Not that he would have been able to tell even if there was some magic at play; real magic, beyond that of healing or alchemy, was too far out of his depth to comprehend.

He followed his cousin through the quiet halls, occasionally glancing out through one if the large windows to see the city and the castle’s gardens or up at one of the many paintings and tapestries on the walls. The stillness was odd here, missing the fear and nervousness that most of the nobility’s homes seemed to possess. Here, it was simply quiet.

“This way,” Victoria instructed softly, leading him up a side-passage he wouldn’t have noticed if not for her direction.

He was tired and, honestly, coming out today had been a terrible idea. His head felt odd and empty, thoughts strangled in silence, and his body felt numb and tingly. He really ought to have stayed home. But Alex enjoyed helping Victoria too much. Psychology had only ever been a field to study as an enormous puzzle. He talked to his clients, helped them through their problems if he could or just listened if he couldn’t, and then they would leave and he was on to the next. Certainly, he was pleased when a client went on to a happier life than before stepping into his office, but he never really felt like he was accomplishing anything. His clients helped themselves, he was just the sounding board, reflecting back at them what they needed to confront. But, when Victoria came to talk to him, he felt like he might be able to help people. Like his actions actually meant something. It was a nice, if somewhat scary, feeling.

The castle’s infirmary was only half empty. Most of the occupied beds were full of heavily-bandaged soldiers, most of which were sleeping; the rest quietly chatting or contemplating the ceiling. The last bed in the hall was hidden by screens. _The siren, perhaps?_

His assumptions were proven to be true as Victoria led him around the screens and up to the bed. The siren was, quite possibly, one of the most aesthetically beautiful women he’d even laid eyes upon. As pale as a corpse, her face was soft and cherubic, framed by dark, perfectly-formed curls. There was something entrancing in the faint blue glow her skin emanated and the pout of her full, slightly parted lips. This he knew was magic; the way sirens caught their prey. But it still brought him pause as he removed his houndstooth chesterfield coat and set it carefully in a nearby chair. His plaid scarf was quick to follow and professional curiosity drove him closer to the siren’s bed.

_Comatose, then?_ he observed, noting the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the unconscious woman’s chest. He felt for a pulse, finding it incredibly faint after his third attempt. Her skin felt odd; extremely cold except for certain random patches of skin (which he suspected had veins and arteries running close to the surface) as well as her forehead and the back of her neck. She felt clammy everywhere he touched, but her skin was showing signs of dehydrations. _Problem,_ Alex thought, _is she dehydrated from fever or because her natural habitat is the sea?_

Victoria stood there, perfectly content to watch in silence as he poked and prodded, but Alex had to admit that it made him quite awkward with her standing over him. If he recalled the report in the Times, the siren had been found nude…and the thought of removing the blankets from her seemed extremely inappropriate, even if someone had dressed her. Victoria’s scrutiny made it even worse.

Luckily, he was saved from having to wrestle with himself about whether or not to remove the siren’s blankets himself as a matronly woman bustled into the small, curtained area. She didn’t look happy.

“Now, Miss,” she began tartly, frowning at Victoria, “I know you’re anxious for results, but I don’t—”

“It’s alright, Nanny,” Victoria replied soothingly. “I didn’t bring him to take over her care; only to be a second set of eyes for a little bit. You’re doing a fine job, but I need to make sure this isn’t something that can spread.”

The older woman’s frown only barely faded and she turned her dark eyes on Alex with an expression that made him feel as though she were about to chase him from the infirmary with a broomstick.

“You’re a doctor, then?” she snapped.

Alex barely managed to rein in his surprise and scraped his off-balanced nerves together enough to give a small bow. “Alexander Mulch, ma’am. I am only here for a quick evaluation.”

He hoped that was the truth. Victoria had indicated that there were two victims, and yet…he only saw one. Where was the other? And why did this feel somewhat… _shady_?

“Nina Andrews,” the matron grumbled. “What d’you want, then?”

“It would certainly help to see the site of infection—” — _though I do not wish to be improprietous and I would prefer not to intrude upon the lady’s privacy_ , he finished in his head, unwilling to give voice to his embarrassment. He was in unfamiliar territory. Most of his patients in school had been male; all of the patients that had required him to have access to a patient’s entire body had been male. And, as for interaction with other genders, it was…mostly foreign to him. Not that it usually mattered in his current profession, but touching a nude woman seemed strange. Looking at one was…. _Oh, for goodness’s sake, Alex; you’re almost forty, conduct yourself with more decorum than a schoolboy_ , he chided himself, attempting to focus his mind.

While he dawdled, Nurse Andrews had come between him and the siren, carefully untucking the cot’s sheets and pulling them up and over to reveal the siren’s right leg. The sight of the black mark on her skin drew him sharply from his anxiety to focus on the present. _What, by the gods…?_ It was as though someone had carved a curling rendition of a child’s drawing of a sun into her leg and filled it with something black and thick.

Intrigue brought him closer once more, kneeling down beside her.

Upon inspection, the mark didn’t appear to be caused by a blade; the flesh was not torn nor was there any bruising from where someone would have had to brace themselves to make the cuts. It also wasn’t a burn; the skin around each curling line was not puckered or blistered, but as smooth and pale as the rest of her. Was it an infection? Some sort of spell? …poison?

“Have you been cleaning it regularly?” he enquired of Nurse Andrews, glancing briefly up at her before returning his gaze to the shape.

“At least once a day,” the nurse replied, losing some of her annoyance in favour of relaying information easier.

“Applied salves and ointments?”

“At first. They didn’t help much, really.”

“I am surprised they helped at all,” Alex murmured, almost under his breath. He pulled on a pair of kid gloves, wary of spreading contamination, and carefully prodded around the lines of the mark. The siren’s leg wasn’t swollen, nor did there seem to be any inflammation. Gently applying pressure, he looked for signs of pus or any other fluids attempting to drain from the wound. There were none. However, he did notice what appeared to be the entrance wound: the small circle at the centre of the “sun” was a small puncture, just deep enough for the tip of a quill. The black substance within it was still tacky and thick, like tar.

“This is strange,” he observed, intending to address Victoria, but willing to receive input from anyone who might have something to add. “She has the signs of infection, but…it’s not infected. I cannot imagine what caused this.”

“Can you fix it?” Victoria enquired, sounding more curious than demanding.

_That_ gave Alex pause. Could he? He wasn’t certain. When he had been training to become a surgeon, he’d been mentored by a Physik by the name of Ibai. Ibai had taught him the difference between wounds of men, creatures, and magic, as well as how to treat them as effectively as possible. He had learned to shun practices such as leeches and other potentially harmful “healing” methods and, instead, had been taught how to manipulate herbs and mix them with “modern” medical practices to get the best of both fields of study. Alex couldn’t have asked for a better teacher. (However, it was also Ibai who, upon Alex enquiring if it was normal for a surgeon to be more interested in the effects of an illness’s symptoms than the patient’s quick recovery, had told him to invest in a different career. Still, it had steered him to psychology and, up until his death, Ibai had been interested in hearing Alex’s theories, so it had, in some way, worked out.) In these circumstances, Alex was fairly certain Ibai would have followed his cardinal rule of treating according to the symptoms, so the body would be allowed to heal itself, instead of _just_ treating the symptoms, which would only relieve the symptoms and not the cause. The infected tissue would have been removed and a poultice of shepherd’s purse would have been applied to stop the bleeding and help cleanse the blood. A compress of oak and rose wood (soaked until soft and pliable) would have been used to keep the poultice in place as well as enhance its healing factor, then the siren’s calf would have been wrapped in linen. Ibai probably would have also set it with a spell, not that _that_ helped Alex any, and prescribed a willow and poppy tea in case the siren was in pain when she awoke.

As for Alex? He wasn’t certain what to do. He could risk Ibai’s methods, but then he would also risk a greater chance of infection or, even worse, something like gangrene. And if it was a poison…there was no telling just what it was doing to her internally. It was too risky.

“I would like to take some blood samples, if you are both willing to allow it,” he remarked. In the absence of protest, he went to find a needle in his bag.

~ * ~

Several hours later, Alex found himself, of all places, in Reaver’s Millfields manor. He’d never been inside before. Actually, to be perfectly honest, he’d never officially met Reaver before. Glanced at him once or twice in court and had the…“fortune” of catching a speech or two in Industrial back when King Logan was alive, but they’d never been formally introduced. And he was utterly unprepared for it. Reaver radiated charm and charisma the way some people seemed to somehow ooze perfume; in a way that felt mildly offensive and oddly entrancing…if only for all the wrong reasons. Everything changed the second Reaver’s eyes met his. The entire world condensed to a tiny pinprick of heat that seemed to keep them locked together. Alex felt like a rabbit staring down a snake; like prey.

The thought stirred a flicker of ire in his gut, but Victoria didn’t allow him to linger on their “host”.  Instead, she pulled him towards the nearest staircase and hurried him up it. He could feel Reaver’s gaze burning into his back the entire way. Alex decided to wrap this one up quickly.

Once more, Victoria led him through a maze of hallways and up to a small room—or, at the very least, small for a manor as large as this was. The woman on the bed inside looked middle age, with the faintest wisps of grey in her dark hair and a small frame. Her eyes were covered by a strip of fabric, but she appeared to be sleeping…and _not_ comatose.

“Where is her injury?” Alex whispered, not wanting to wake her, if possible. If it was the same sort of injury, then the only thing he wanted was a blood sample for comparison. If the results were odd, he could always come back (or have her come to him) and then speak to her. Assuming her condition didn’t worsen, of course. But this woman seemed in a far better state than the siren had.

“On her left side; near her ribs.”

“Would you mind terribly…?” He let the question trail off as, once again, he shed his coat and began searching through his bag. It needed to be reorganized; maybe if everything went well when he got home….

By the time he’d found what he needed Victoria had carefully situated both the bedclothes and the woman’s shift for the easiest access to the wound site. The strange symbol the siren had borne was present on this woman, he noted, though it appeared the symptoms had progressed further. Around the mark, her veins were darkened and discoloured. There was swelling, too, but no discharge when he applied pressure. And the only thing that came out when he took a blood sample was…well, _blood_.

“May I have her name?”

“Theresa,” Victoria replied.

“Thank you. I’ll need a sample from you, as well,” he murmured, scrawling Theresa’s name on the filled vial before reaching for an empty one and a fresh syringe.

By the time he’d collected a sample from Victoria and found himself alone in a carriage with the intention of heading home, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong about this entire affair. Alex liked to think he was a man of science; that he lived firmly within the realm of things explainable and rational. But _this_ wasn’t rational. Marks appearing from nowhere, causing harm to a body with no signs of how or why it was doing it…it… _scared_ him. He didn’t want to get involved in magic and curses and things he couldn’t fight or reason out. Didn’t want to draw attention from forces beyond this world.

But…he was a doctor, wasn’t he? So maybe he hadn’t graduated in the field he’d originally intended, and maybe his oath wasn’t quite the same as the one he’d been prepared to take, but he’d still sworn to help people. And Victoria had said she _needed_ his help. That gave him a stronger sense of validation than he wanted to admit—a sense of contact with another person he couldn’t bring himself to find on his own. He knew perfectly well he would help her regardless of how uncomfortable it made him.

Where to check the blood, though?

His former university had a lab open for students and whoever else needed use of it (usually doctors, chemists, or scholars working on research papers), but there was still a concern for cross contamination. Most hospitals didn’t have completely up-to-date equipment and those that did required mountains of paperwork for those who did not work there to use them. He knew of some personal labs scattered around the city, but those were all either inside someone’s home, or built in such a way that the laboratory was connected to the house through other means…if there was some manner of virus within both infected parties, he couldn’t risk it getting out so close to where people lived. That was the big problem, wasn’t it? Where ever he studied, there was a chance of this…thing getting out. Enquiries would have to be made. A safe space would have to be secured. Alex made a mental note to collect some uncontaminated blood samples for comparison.

As the carriage pulled up to his front door, he found he was less on edge. He actually had a semblance of a plan and it seemed to push his fear of the supernatural from his mind.

He abandoned the carriage and, bag in hand, hurried up the steps to his house. It was only as the door closed behind him that his thoughts stopped racing enough for him to realise just how tired he was. He carefully set his bag down and leaned against the door. The cool wood was soothing to his pounding head. Before any enquiries were made, he decided, he would take a nap. The next few days would be long and busy…he couldn’t afford to get sick again.

The skin on the back of his neck crawled; hairs rising to create an unnerving prickling sensation and letting him know he was no longer alone.

“Hello, M,” he murmured dully, addressing the shadowed gloom of the hall behind him as his enthusiasm turned to ash.

Alex’s muscles tensed defensively, feeling something like arms wrap around his waist from behind. The attention was unwanted, but unavoidable and he could barely resist the rising cringe at being touched.

“I miss you when you go sometimes, Aly,” M replied, his words surprisingly genuine. They did nothing to make Alex feel better.

_You always do_.


	7. 6. The Guild

Reaver had been in a huffy, irritable mood the entire evening. Though Victoria had tried to coax the reason for his temperament from him, he wasn’t willing to share and Victoria no longer had patience. It was taking all she had to ignore him and _not_ start cursing him. Not that he didn’t _deserve_ it. Probably. She hadn’t had a chance to grab any paperwork from the Castle just yet, meaning she was still (happily) oblivious to anything Reaver had been up to while she had been out of town. She had no desire to get into a fight tonight.

And so she’d condemned herself to keeping watch over Theresa. The seeress seemed to have no inclination to awaken. Her chest rose and fell steadily, at least giving Victoria a bit of comfort that Theresa was alive. She would have preferred knowing what had attacked them. But there was nothing for it.

Victoria settled into a chair and began scribbling down notes on all that had happened thus far and all that she knew about this… _creature_. There wasn’t very much to write down. And, when she was done, the notes felt unsatisfactory. Every hour Jack popped his head into the room to make sure she didn’t need anything. Otherwise she simply…sat there. Staring in solemn contemplation of the woman on the bed before her.

Theresa had always seemed ridiculously strong to her. A figure of legend and myth that couldn’t be shaken. And the seeress’s demeanour did nothing to dissuade that notion. She made life and death decisions with an ease Victoria envied. She played puppeteer to every Hero to fall into her path and was remorseless about the loss they might suffer to reach the end of the path she set before them. For those reasons alone, Victoria was not fond of her. If Theresa had had any sense of compassion, Logan might still be alive. Some gentleness and thought might have made for a lot more Heroes in general being alive…and, those that were gone, might have been happier people.

Still…she couldn’t help but wonder if there would even _be_ an Albion if Theresa wasn’t so ruthless. She knew her father suspected Theresa had been the one to give Lucien Fairfax information on how to raise the Spire—information that had gotten Sparrow’s sister murdered and had nearly caused the same end for him. She knew Theresa had withheld information from Logan and had given half-truths to Victoria in an effort to furtherly warp her opinion of her elder brother and incite her to rebellion. And, while Victoria scorned these actions, she couldn’t help but wonder. Would her father have ever lived to be a Hero if Theresa had not all but led Lucien to him? Rose and Sparrow had been orphaned and homeless at the time, with no one to look after them. Would they have even lived long enough to grow up? If they had and he’d become a Hero, would Sparrow have had even half the motivation to go after Lucien as he’d had after Rose’s death? Would Lucien have succeeded? And, if Logan had not been so desperate—if he had not harmed the country so much and if he’d not killed Elliot—would Victoria have ever felt the need to rise against him? Would the Crawler have destroyed Albion and everyone within it? Would that darkness have spread to cover the entire world? As much as those thoughts scared her, she knew the answer was yes. Everything would have been gone.

Unnerved, Victoria shifted in her chair. But now that she’d thought of it, the images rose unbidden to her mind. Dead, barren trees on scorched earth. Cracked streets and crumbled, burning houses. Lifeless cities playing mausoleum to millions of bones. Creatures crawling out of festering muck to spread their filth wherever they may go before sinking back into the shadows. A still, darkened world where nothing but the Void could rule.

_That’s enough_ , she told herself sharply. Her heart aching even as a note of perverse joy rose in the back of her mind.

_No, it will never be enough_ , the Crawler replied. _They will die. Rend them. Devour them. Bathe in their blood. They will scream for you, but you will not save them. Do not worry, child, I will make sure you enjoy it._

“Is that so?” Victoria murmured. She kept her voice neutral but her hands glowed warningly as she summoned her Will. Fragments of light, bright and crystalline glittered in her palms like tiny fragments of stars. All it would take to increase the light to a blaze was a small push. “Do you wish to test that theory?”

She felt its presence linger a moment before begrudgingly backing down to near nonexistence. In response, she extinguished the spell. It occurred to her now that she ought to have asked what it knew of the creature she and Theresa had encountered, but she also knew it was annoyed enough to not reply for now. As much as she was aware “arguing with herself” sounded ridiculous, these encounters always made her feel drained. But she also knew she had to protect herself. It was…exhausting. She missed the days when her mind had always been her own, even if that sort of wishing was pointless.

Frustrated, she glanced toward the room’s only window. Moonlight streamed in, barely illuminating the trees outside. Victoria estimated it had to be nearly midnight. Jack hadn’t shown himself recently, which made her wonder if everyone had gone to bed. She considered doing the same. It was late, and _clearly_ Theresa had no intentions of waking up tonight. In theory, she could go see if Reaver was still awake, either to address what was wrong with him lately or for… _other_ activities. But she was still a bit annoyed at him and she didn’t want their relationship to worsen again. She was too tired and too attached to go through that at present.

Besides, she’d done enough fighting with herself lately to have to deal with fighting Reaver as well.

_Bed_ , she decided, slowly rising from her chair. As she made her way to the door, Theresa remained unmoving. _I’ll need to check on her in the morning_.

The lamps were extinguished in the halls and everything looked unfamiliar. Dark, winding passages with too many closed doors and no windows, much like a crypt’s labyrinth. Her tattoos glowed dully through her light-coloured blouse, granting a faint blue sheen to the gilded frames of paintings as she passed. It was the only light she had. The silence settled in around her, making her aware of just how loud her footsteps were. Victoria instantly made an effort to move as quietly as she could. Unfortunately, all it accomplished was reminding her of how eerily still everything was. She felt like she as being watched. The eyes of the paintings seemed to follow her with every step. More than once, she thought she saw something moving at the far end of the hall.

But…that wasn’t possible, was it? It was too dark to be certain. Besides, she was _glowing_ ; it was entirely possible something could see her that she herself could not see.

Fighting back a shudder, she cursed under her breath. What was she doing? Standing here in the dark, frightening herself like a child. Certainly, Reaver’s homes had always had a sinister edge to them, especially in the middle of the night, but there wasn’t really anything to be afraid of. That wasn’t _quite_ true. But Victoria was determined not to focus on that as long as she could find her way back to her room. _Follow the hall_ , she decided. The only problem, Victoria supposed, was if she couldn’t find it by the time she reached the end of the hall. Turning around and making for the main hall (and then finding Reaver’s room and crawling into bed with him, but she didn’t want to think about that) was really the only viable alternative…though teleporting into the front room could be fun, too.

Forgoing chiding herself, she began walking once more.

As it turned out, the hall wasn’t entirely straight. It twisted and turned somewhat irrationally and Victoria found her trepidation replaced with annoyance. How was it, she wondered, that she could be in the middle of a forest and find her way through with ease, but the second she was in a city, or even just a very large house, she was utterly lost? She wondered at her sense of direction sometimes; she truly did.

That was when she heard it: mournful notes on the air. A solitary, lonesome sound almost too faint to perceive. _Upstairs somewhere_. Curiosity got the better of her and, momentarily ignoring that she’d intended on going to bed, she found herself creeping towards the music.

Stumbling in the dark yet again, she eventually found a small, rickety servant’s stairway and followed it upwards. It was slightly easier to see here, but she kept both hands on the walls just in case. The music grew in volume as she walked. Victoria hardly noticed she was all but holding her breath.

The stairs opened to a hallway. A single leaded glass window allowed just enough moonlight in to illuminate the doors running the length of the passage. All but one was closed with no trace of light slipping from underneath the heavy wood. The last, however, was cracked open just enough to allow a sliver of golden candlelight to escape the room. Victoria let the solemn tune carry her forward and tried to keep as quiet as possible, cringing every time she stepped on a creaky board. Her footsteps hardly mattered; the musician was too enraptured to notice her.

Red hair like silken curtains. A moth-eaten, Alice blue dress. A violin of wood so weathered it looked as though a nymph had carved it from a long-dead tree. Victoria leaned as close to the door as she possibly could without being able to touch it. She’d never heard something so beautiful—like heartache were it a sound. She wanted to listen forever.

A hand fastened around her upper arm as another covered her mouth, effectively silencing her yelp of surprise. Carefully but firmly, someone led her backwards to the stairs. The hand on her arm let go first, and she whirled around, more than ready to tell who-ever-it-was off for dragging her around. The rant, however, died in her throat.

“Jack?” she enquired, confused. “By Skorm, what are y—”

Nearly-blonde hair ruffled and blue eyes wide, he grabbed her hand and tugged her back down the stairs; clearly in a hurry. “You weren’t s’posed to know about this yet. Catherine said to keep it quiet, so did Reaver. _Shit_ , it was meant to be a fucking _secret_.”

Jack all but dragged her toward her rooms, ignoring her (mostly quiet, if only to keep from waking the entire house) protests. She tried, repeatedly, to demand answers from him. Jack had none to give.

~ * ~

By the time morning had come, Victoria was fuming. Jack had been exceedingly unwilling to give her any details on the mysterious violinist or why he had to keep them a secret. Victoria had considered pulling rank and demanding an explanation as queen…but it seemed like an awfully petty thing. She’d come to regret it sometime between midnight and dawn, as she paced the shadowy confines of her loaned rooms. Annoyance had turned to ire and she’d barely kept from marching across the house in search of someone to rant to. She was sick of people keeping secrets from her. Theresa and Reaver both held onto secrets like a child hoarding sweets. Manipulating and twisting everything, keeping the truth from those who needed it. She didn’t understand them— _couldn’t_ understand them. They were _infuriating._ And she was _done_ with this nonsense.

Victoria waited until it seemed about time for breakfast, changed into the last of her spare clothes, and began her journey through the manor. She stopped to check on Theresa, frustrated when she found the seeress was still asleep, before continuing on towards what she thought was the dining room. She could feel her Will crackling in response to her temper. Prickles of energy just under her skin. She forced herself to contain it before the magic could escape and attempted to relax her muscles. _Calm, focus, try and get answers_ before _you accidentally burn the house down_. With a heavy sigh, she made her way into the room.

Reaver had seated himself at the head of the table and already had nearly cleared his plate. A relatively light breakfast had been laid down on the table and Victoria noticed there had been just enough made for only the both of them. The sight of a tea pot was a welcome one. She reached for it immediately as she carefully sat down at the seat to his right.

“Well, _good morning_ , love. Finally decided to join me, I see,” he murmured, managing to sound both cheerful and sarcastic without even looking up from his newspaper. Reaver seemed about as pleased with the Bowerstone Times as Victoria was with the thought of sprouts for dinner.

Biting down an accusation, Victoria reached for the nearest dish and began filling up her plate. “You seem… _happier_ this morning.”

A rather undignified huff of amusement escaped him as he glanced up long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. “Do I?” he enquired, tone turning suspiciously playful. “Why _ever_ could that be? No meddling old women, no annoying doctors, and a delightful article quoting your dear Page as she slanders my good name. I see nothing special about today.”

Victoria couldn’t help but mimic his expression in return, feeling exhausted amusement roll over her. Page, it seemed, would never give Reaver a moment’s rest; even if he wasn’t causing problems at the time. But she also knew perfectly well that responding to any comments about Page would lead to a fight (which was amusing, if only because the same thing happened if Reaver was brought up in Page’s company) and she had far more important things to argue about. Still, first things first: “You _do_ realise you have absolutely no reason to dislike Alex, don’t you?”

Reaver paused, a very pregnant pause filling the air between them. “And _why_ , exactly, would _I_ have any issues with _him?_ ”

“Haven’t a clue,” Victoria replied, cutting a fried tomato into bite-sized pieces, “but I assumed that had something to do with why you were glaring at him like you wanted to shoot him last night. And why you’d see fit to mention him without provocation now.”

This time, the huff she received was annoyed. “ _Really_. Me? Annoyed by random children? Don’t be _ridiculous_.”

Victoria couldn’t have rolled her eyes harder if she tried. The fun had worn itself out, as had what little patience she’d scraped together. She was also out of toast and tomatoes, which didn’t help in the slightest. “Forget it. Just…forget about Alex.” Something unintelligible was grumbled in her general direction as she took a sip of tea. Setting the cup down, she queried: “Reaver, who is Catherine?”

“ _Ah_.”

She received no further response. Reaver’s expression had gone almost awkwardly blank as he refolded the paper and set it aside. Not thirty seconds later, he’d risen from his seat and was leaving the room. Victoria simply stared. _…okay, that’s not suspicious at all_ , she thought dryly. Plate nearly empty, she put her last piece of bacon in her mouth and quickly munched it as she stood up.

He was halfway down the hall by the time she’d made it out the door.

“Reaver, don’t walk away from me. This isn’t something you can ignore.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, turning on her as he replied, “And it’s not something _you_ need to know about.”

“Really? I seem to recall that I am, in fact, Queen of Albion and if something is important enough to make you run from a conversation, it’s damn near important enough for me to know about.” At the answering scoff and eye roll she received, Victoria’s expression soured. “Damn you, Reaver, I’ve _had it_ up to here with your secrets—”

“ _My_ secrets? And you expect me to believe _you_ have no secrets of your own? Don’t be childish, my dear Queen. We both know there are things of which you’ve _never_ seen fit to tell me; consider this something _I_ am unwilling to discuss with _you_.”

She tried to ignore the uncomfortable twinge in her gut at his words. He couldn’t possibly know just how right he was, but that didn’t make it any easier. “Please don’t do this,” she said quietly, attempting diplomacy. “ _Please_ don’t make me treat you like a bastard just to get an answer from you. I don’t want to do this right now. I just want an answer.”

“And I cannot fathom how to explain it to you.”

“…just…try. _Please_.”

Reaver was silent. She could see his throat working as though he was trying to find the right words. For a moment, she thought he might actually say something. Then he simply turned on his heel and walked away.

_You’ve_ got _to be fucking kidding_. Resisting the urge to shout at him, she elected to follow him. She didn’t understand why this was such a big deal. She wanted to know who one person was; was that really so much to ask? She’d take the lack of answer if he would only give her a reason for it, but…no. Reaver never explained himself. He did as he pleased, and it was _exhausting_.

Her frustration turned to surprise when, upon reaching his study, he held the door open for her. Victoria shot him a wary look before eventually entering the room.

The fireplace was empty of fire, though someone had placed an arrangement of flowers within the hearth. Sunlight flowed into the room, unhindered by the heavy curtains that had been tied back. That creepy bird statue had not moved from its position or pedestal (and for that Victoria was extremely grateful, otherwise the damn thing would need a beheading). Everything seemed very quiet and still. There was no one else present, but she couldn’t shake a feeling of unease. Victoria decided she completely and utterly disliked this study.

A clatter across the room made her jump and she turned to find Reaver fidgeting with some bottles in a liquor cabinet.

“Who told you?” he asked, keeping all emotion but faint curiosity from his voice as he selected a bottle.

Victoria hesitated, wondering if this could have any negative repercussions. “Jack,” she replied after a moment. “But I don’t think he intended to.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be _surprised_ ,” Reaver remarked, now sounding almost disinterested. “You _both_ have a talent for naughtiness.” Victoria shot him a disbelieving look and he smirked in reply. “Come, come, now; I have nothing but adoration for your trouble seeking ways.”

She scowled, trying to fight the flush rising in her cheeks. “You’re doing a wonderful job dodging the question.”

Rolling his eyes with enough drama to shame an actor, he poured out a measure of whiskey and downed it. He frowned at the bottle, pondering another glass, before setting both liquor and the glass aside.

“Catherine is Jack’s guardian,” he finally replied. He insinuated himself into a loveseat, legs crossed and arms spread across the backrest as though he’d collapsed into the seat and hadn’t bothered to collect himself.

Victoria crept closer to stand directly in front of him. “Guardian? You mean…his mother?”

Reaver chuckled, shaking his head at her. The movement shook his hair out of its style, letting it fall into his eyes. As he watched her from under the over-long fringe, it somehow made his expression seem more coquettish than surveying. “No.”

At Victoria’s blank stare, he added, “Think of her as an orphanage director for… _very strange_ children, if you will.”

“Strange? How…strange?” _Should I be concerned?_

He waved the question away almost negligently. “The sort that can’t be adopted _easily_ , circumstances permitting. She takes them in, raises them until they’re of age, and…some stay. Some leave. Jack elected to remain. He was one of her first, as far as I’m aware. And he led her to me after his grandmother made clear the… _connection_ between us. They wanted nothing from me for years, until…say three weeks ago. They were evicted— _not_ by my hand,” he added before she could comment, “and they needed lodgings until their new residence is repaired.”

“So you just…let them stay here out of the goodness of your heart?” Victoria was unable to keep the sarcasm from her words.

“Hmm…well, it _is_ rather fascinating to have a cousin wandering about. Playing tricks on people that aren’t paying attention.”

_Huh, cousin…not what I expected_ , she thought, trying to ignore the small twinge of relief that Jack wasn’t his son. His reasoning, however, was a blatant lie. He hadn’t even tried to hide it. She internally sighed. Her frustration with him had marginally faded at getting an answer from him, and she was tired enough to not push it.

“I thought we agreed to talk things through. Why can’t you ever just _talk_ to me?” she asked exhaustedly, letting him pull her down to straddle his lap. “I’m here...you _can_ tell me things. We don’t _always_ have to fight because our communication is bollocks. Then I can stop being angry at you _all the time_ ….”

“ _Are_ you angry with me now?” he queried. His hands rubbed her back as she leaned against him. He sounded…genuinely curious. As though it were something he truly cared to know. She wasn’t certain if it was an act or not.

“Dunno,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Give me a moment to consider.”

Victoria could feel his laugh reverberate through his chest and she smiled against his neck. She liked this. These little moments where they’d stop being themselves and just… _be_. And when he kissed her, it was not for want of sex, it was just for the sake of kissing. He held her like she might vanish if he let go. She clung to him like he might save her from the world. And, together, they just were.

She wished it happened more often.

But then, just as she was relaxing into the soft pecks against her clavicle, the study door opened. Reaver subtly tensed. Victoria all but flung herself off him, terrified at the thought of some random person finding them entwined.

“My apologies, Heroes, have I interrupted something?”

Theresa had woken up.

~ * ~

Two cups of tea and a cranberry scone had not helped Theresa to look less sickly. Her usually tanned skin was sallow and clammy, and, even sitting down, she didn’t look entirely steady. However, what struck Victoria was how _young_ Theresa appeared. Victoria had never seen the seeress without her hair in a tight bun and a hood covering most of her face. But now, sitting on one of Reaver’s armchairs in her tatty dress with her thick, greying hair falling about her shoulders, she looked like someone’s mother. Unassuming and in no way mysterious…if not for the scrap of red fabric over her sightless eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Victoria enquired, ignoring Reaver’s tsk of disapproval from the other side of the room.

Theresa’s small, calloused hands set down the tea cup carefully and Victoria idly wondered where the seeress’s jewellery had gone to. For as long as Victoria had known her, Theresa had worn rings on each finger; gold earrings had peeked shyly out from under her hood and ropes of charms and pendants had hung around her neck. Her robes had sparkled with small coins and glass beans sewn at the hems. All of those were gone now. Only a single necklace remained: a simple strand of twine with five unassuming clay amulets. Victoria wondered what they were for but decided not to ask. There were more important things to discuss first.

“My health is of little consequence at present.”

“Oh, _really_ now?” Reaver interjected dryly. He’d gotten up to lean against the wall near one of the long mullioned windows around the time Theresa had been brought her first cup of tea. His expression indicated he very much wanted to shoot someone. “Well then, perhaps I ought to have _left you_ lying on the front stoop.”

His expression remained unchanging even as Victoria levelled a glare at him. She got it: he disliked Theresa. Victoria wasn’t fond of the seeress either, but she needed her right now and Theresa’s potential information was worth more than some temporary annoyance. Or so she hoped.

Luckily, Theresa seemed well versed in ignoring Reaver, for she didn’t seem to even notice he had spoken. “There is little you can do for my physical state.”

“I need to know what attacked you,” Victoria said. She was rather pleased at how little frustration seeped into her tone.

The silence was heavy. Even Reaver seemed curious about Theresa’s answer. But Theresa didn’t speak. She shifted as though momentarily turning away.

The minutes stretched uncomfortably and, just as Victoria was beginning to consider repeating her question, Theresa finally said: “I need to return to the Spire.”

“No,” Victoria replied sharply. “I’ll tell you what I told Reaver: I’m done playing other people’s games. You want to go back to the Spire? Then you need to first tell me what’s attacking my people. We can either sit here in angry silence for the end of time or you can tell me something for once and we can get to helping people. Because whatever attacked you and that siren is not going to stop on its own. You can’t pick and choose when you want me to be a Hero; I need you to trust me.”

Even without eyes, Theresa’s confusion was abundantly clear on her face. “What do you mean? A siren was attacked?”

Victoria simply sat there, brows raised incredulously, waiting for Theresa to drop the joke. And then she realised she  was being perfectly serious. She didn’t know about the siren. But that was impossible…wasn’t it? “You didn’t See…?”

Theresa shook her bowed head. She seemed frail and uncertain and the sight made Victoria’s stomach clench.

“When was the last time you had a vision?” Victoria enquired slowly, a horrible surge of realisation settling over her.

“Some months ago,” was the quiet admission.

“How _marvellous_ ; a seer without visions,” Reaver snarked, utterly unsympathetic.

Victoria barely resisted putting her head in her hands in exasperation for the both of them. Theresa couldn’t See…and Reaver couldn’t just let things go. What the hell was she meant to do about all this?

“That thing that attacked you,” Victoria murmured thoughtfully, “it’s blocking your visions, isn’t it? _That’s_ why it went after you? It knows you can See what it may do.”

“This is why I must return to the Spire. The Devourer cannot be allowed to claim it; it is too dangerous. And for a siren to be attacked…things must be worse than I feared.”

_The Devourer…_. The shadow in Victoria’s mind unwound, growing until its presence was noticeable, but did nothing more than stay alert. It was… _furious_. She could feel it bristling; inactive, but ready to pounce. Like the faint rumble of a dog’s growl before it snapped. _What is it?_ she thought. She received no answer.

“ _What_ is the Devourer?” Victoria asked aloud.

Theresa raised a placating hand, reaching for her nearly-empty tea cup with the other. “That is not for now. I—” She broke off, head turning towards the door. “I would prefer not to speak of this now. You are about to have company.”

Victoria and Reaver exchanged blank looks. Neither of them had heard any sounds—then again, they’d both been too preoccupied with what Theresa had to say to focus on what was happening outside the study. Frowning, Victoria opened her mouth to ask what exactly Theresa thought was coming.

The distant sound of raised voices slowly reached Victoria’s ears. Confused, she gradually rose to her feet, unsure she wanted to see what was approaching the room. Soon enough, the voices became clearer, but they did nothing to add any clarity.

“—being stupid, Tash,” protested a voice that Victoria eventually realised belonged to Jack.

It was an unfamiliar voice that replied: “You said it yourself, she saw Judith. She’ll know eventually. It would be extremely problematic for us if I withheld information.”

“That’s _not_ the _poi_ —”

The door swung open and, brow cocked questioningly, Victoria set eyes on Jack and a young man she’d never before seen. From his spot by the window, Reaver let out a long-suffering, melodramatic sigh. Jack looked frantic and frustrated, his hair even more ruffled than the previous night, though his companion looked calm and stern. Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria noticed that Theresa had a tiny, serene smile on her lips. She had just enough time to register that it was odd before the stranger stepped forward.

“You are the Queen of Albion? Her Majesty, Queen Victoria?” he enquired, his voice slow and deep and strangely calming. He bowed deeply, a grave expression on his exotic features. He was Samarkandi, Victoria realised; it had taken her a moment for his colouring was…strange. Most travellers she’d met from Samarkand were dark with high cheekbones and strong jawlines. Such was not the case with this man. It was as though he had been drained of all pigment in his body except for his eyes, which were a very pale blue. What surprised her the most, however, was how wise he seemed, though he appeared to be younger than her. (Not that age could really be taken at face value anymore, she supposed; both Reaver and Theresa looked far younger than they truly were and Victoria was well aware her father had aged incredibly slowly.)

“Um…yes?” she supplied, feeling off balance. “There’s no need to be formal. Victoria is fine…as is Lady Rochester, if you really _must_ use formality.” She paused, feeling her lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile at the look of abject horror Jack was giving the man. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. My name is Tushaar; I studied under a friend of your father’s, and—” He broke off, staring between Victoria, Theresa, and Reaver as though he’d only just thought through what he was doing. Through the unbuttoned collar of his starched shirt, Victoria could see a flush rising on his neck. “I…”

“She does not know of your mission, young acolyte,” Theresa murmured. Her serene smile was beginning to grow unnerving. “Nor of your research.”

Jack started as though he hadn’t realised Theresa was there but Tushaar seemed to regain his resolve. His voice betrayed no awkwardness as he said, “I would like to show you what I have found, then. It’ll make much more sense than for me to simply tell you. But I believe it will aid you.”

Victoria paused, uncertain. She wanted to get back to what Theresa had been saying before the interruption, but Tushaar’s expression was so serious and so genuinely hopeful that she found it hard to say “no”. She didn’t know what his research was, but, if it could be helpful, then it wasn’t worth missing. And Theresa wasn’t going anywhere in her current state, whereas there was no guarantee of Tushaar staying around. She surreptitiously glanced towards the others in an effort to see what they thought.

Reaver was thoroughly ignoring them—or so he seemed; Victoria was willing to bet he was taking mental notes on everything for later use. Either way, he didn’t seem to care. And Jack’s expression had turned from frustrated disapproval to exhausted resignation. Theresa baffled her. The seeress seemed quite pleased with the idea of seeing Tushaar’s research. Though she hadn’t said anything further, there was something in the way she held herself that indicated she was satisfied.

Glancing back toward Tushaar, Victoria felt herself internally cringe at the thought of a distraction. Plus, trusting newcomers had never been easy for her. It was too easy to put your faith into someone and then have them betray you if you didn’t know them. But it was research, not a quest for gold.

“Very well,” Victoria sighed. She’d not been able to shake the feeling that something was off about Jack, and now that feeling was also directed at Tushaar, but she was willing to attempt to give them the benefit of the doubt. “I’ll…happily take a look.”

Tushaar bowed deeply, turned, and left the room. After a moment, Victoria and Jack followed with Theresa at their heels. Uneasiness swirled in Victoria’s gut. She hoped this look would go quickly. The shadow in the back of her mind was still alert, listening to everything with an intrigue that was highly unusual. It did nothing to make her feel better.

“Y’know this is going to piss Judith off something fierce, don’t you Tash?” Jack shot, frowning as they reached the servant’s stair Victoria had found the previous night.

“She will be fine,” Tushaar replied soothingly. “I have faith in her.”

“ _I_ don’t,” came the almost inaudible grumble from behind them.

Victoria half-turned, surprised. In the journey, Theresa had come to walk in front of her…she’d never noticed she was being followed. The look in Reaver’s eyes made her worried. His expression was one of insolent boredom—nothing out of the usual as far as Victoria was concerned—but his eyes screamed concern and conflict; an entire torrent of thoughts she could never be privy to. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but she knew better. There was a marginal chance of him responding if she asked in private. He would never bother to explain with company. Biting her lip to keep from speaking, she glanced away and kept walking.

Up the stairs, down the hall, and through the door Victoria had tried to keep from opening the previous night, there was a small sitting room. From where she stood, Victoria was fairly certain half the room was covered in teetering stacks of ancient-looking books. Most of the furniture was covered in them. The rest of the room was comprised of a scattering of armchairs and a pair of couches. Nothing elaborate and so entirely out of place. An enormous, muscular woman (whose physique brought the term “bear-like” to mind) with warm, freckled olive skin reclined on one of those couches; a cheap penny-dreadful in hand and her short blue hair a wild mess. Victoria immediately recognized the room’s only other occupant: the violinist she’d previously witnessed. Her red hair had been pulled up and she held herself with a stiffness that was both lady-like and somehow elegant as she moved a stack of parchment. She did _not_ look pleased to see them.

“Hullo, Ange,” Jack bid as Tushaar immediately made way for a particular stack of books. The blue haired girl raised a hand and waved, still intent on whatever story she was reading. Jack’s voice was far less certain as he added, “Judith….”

“Judith, would you be kind enough to light the lamps?” Tushaar interjected before Jack could bring further attention to himself.

Judith turned her glare on him instead and bitterly spat, “Light your own god’amn lamps.”

With that, the waifish girl dropped her parchment on a table, turned, and made her way to the door. She pushed past Victoria and Reaver (the only two still occupying the space) and stormed into the hall.

Jack winced as Judith made her way into another room and slammed the door behind her. “That…went better than expected.”

“Jude’s just bloody livid at the world,” the blue-haired woman said offhandedly. “Evangeline, by the way,” she added, sitting up.

_Is there nothing we can do for her?_ Victoria wondered, curious why someone was that angry. _How_ someone could be that angry. But the question was pushed from her mind by something…unexpected. Tushaar gave a small gesture of the hand not currently flipping through a tome and veins of blue energy flared along his exposed skin, glowing through his clothing. The lamps came to life, tiny flames dancing atop their wicks. Victoria simply stared. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly. The energy faded until Tushaar seemed just as normal as anyone on the street, but the pieces had already fallen into place. _“Strange children”, Reaver had said; not just strange, but…_

“You’re Heroes,” Victoria said quietly, unable to keep the accusation from her voice.

Jack and Evangeline had the decency to look guilty about the secrecy, even while Theresa’s smile widened. Victoria felt her fists clench involuntarily. Could feel a rant building in the back of her throat in response to all the years she’d spent feeling alone and desperate for any sort of connection with someone who might understand how difficult having such power was; of wanting someone willing to talk about it. Her jaw locked in an effort to keep the words from spilling forth like vomit. So much frustration…and there were four young Heroes in the middle of Albion who were probably just as alone as she’d been. It was a struggle to keep her Will from lashing out.

“Strength,” Evangeline confirmed with a slight nod. “I’m…for Strength.”

“Skill,” Jack murmured, not appearing to want to look her in the eye.

“And you’re a Will-user,” Victoria directed towards Tushaar, who was still focused on getting tomes to the proper page.

“Judith is,” he added succinctly. “It hardly matters, does it? I wanted to show you this.”

Repressing the urge to insist that it did matter, Victoria swallowed her biting words and stepped up to the table. The tome was nearly illegible to her, full of ancient symbols that she’d only briefly studied long ago. What was familiar to her, however, was a small sketch on a torn piece of paper of the same shape she’d seen on both the siren in her infirmary and on Theresa’s side: a sun with curling rays.

“ _Where_ did you get this?” Victoria enquired slowly.

Tushaar’s gaze seemed to settle behind her, where Reaver had remained in the doorway, before returning to her. “I’m fortunate to have found as much as I have. This volume is the only one that appears to have any references to this symbol.”

“What does it say?”

“…very little,” he admitted after a moment. “It speaks of a…group known as the Enlightened that attempted to keep a creature from entering Albion in the Old Kingdom…a creature that bore this symbol. They succeeded in sealing off one…and they vanished.”

The shadow in Victoria’s mind bristled as if enraged, but it didn’t attempt to wrestle control from her. Instead it seethed, silently raging.

Victoria nodded, understanding. “The Crawler…they sealed off the Crawler.”

“And destroyed its means of passage into our world from the Void,” Theresa interrupted, confirming Victoria’s fears. “This is why I must return to the Spire. When it was destroyed, those like the Crawler were trapped in the Void. They must not regain control over it.”

“The Spire’s not a tower…it’s a _bridge_ ,” Victoria said. Her skin felt as though it intended to detach from her body and she thought she might be ill. She suddenly wished her father had destroyed it all those years ago, instead of simply making his wish. The Spire should have never been allowed to remain. All these years it had been building in power…who could possibly know what all had slipped through? Fear made her heart spasm and her breath catch as she turned to face Theresa fully. “How long do we have? It was following you; it nearly had you…it’s not going to let that go. And we’ve been here a couple days. It can’t be safe for you to stay here.”

“If I may,” Tushaar replied, sounding thoughtful, “you might be safe for the moment.”

Victoria frowned. “Why do you think so?”

“I felt…a presence last night. Hostile. Dangerous. When I went to investigate, it…appeared confused. Wary. For some reason…it didn’t want to enter the grounds.”

Tushaar seemed confused, and rightly so. After all, what would keep a primeval terror from invading a simple manor and devouring everyone inside? The other young Heroes appeared to not understand either, but Victoria had an inkling. She knew something they did not. And she could see from the now grim set of Theresa’s lips, it was something that had occurred to the seeress as well. It appeared Reaver’s ties to the Shadow Court could be useful after all. Perhaps, they were more possessive than she’d assumed, or perhaps this creature didn’t understand why the darkness clung to this place. But, just maybe, that could keep them alive until they could reach the Spire.

It took everything in her to keep from staring pointedly at Reaver and, instead, tell Theresa: “Then we need to get you to the Spire immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a mess; might've tried to put too much into it. Things will start smoothing out next chapter. Just building some threads for later stuff. Don't mind me.


	8. 7. Safe Harbour

He could not be certain when or why he had awoken in the predawn hours—a time when even the _nasty_ things in Albion slumbered—all he was certain of was that he was suddenly watching her sleep. She’d rolled onto her stomach sometime in the night; despite still being clad in her corset, she had half-curled in on herself as though she’d been attempting to imitate a cat coiling itself up. Temptation sang through his veins, telling him to draw her closer and breathe in the scent of her perfumed skin in a rare gesture of true affection. He wouldn’t allow himself, though; if he moved her, she would wake and he was quite content with her as she was in that moment: her expression open and untainted by thought or trouble, lips trembling slightly with every slow breath that rolled as smoothly through her body as the tide against the shore.

He carefully reached out and freed the thin strap of her chemise from where it had pulled against her shoulder to unobscure the glowing blue tattoo it had previously shielded from view. His fingers idly traced the pattern, feeling the slight prickle of Will with every touch. She was such an odd woman—a mystery that refused to be solved. She never did what he expected or behaved as any of his previous lovers had. Of course, a large part of the difference was that she had never thrown herself at his feet in adoration, but that wasn’t even the half of her peculiarity. Over the years he’d come to find that most of his lovers acted unscrupulous and were eager for anything that pushed societal limits until they were in private, whereupon they really wanted someone to love them gently and give to them their heart…which he was incapable of actually doing, even if he’d wanted to. She was…different. So puritanical and up-right in public and private—it was only once the doors were bolted tight and they both knew exactly why they were there that she changed, becoming wild and untamed to the point where she was sometimes unrecognizable even to him. His little masochist had grown into a heathen of circumstance.

As he mulled that thought over, he paused, only to carefully lift her hair from the back of her neck as an entirely new thought occurred to him. Perhaps, he pondered, Heroes were really just uncivilized creatures wearing civilized masks.

Or maybe he’d just read too many novels. If left up to him, he would refute neither possibility.

His gaze shifted away with a faint sigh. It didn’t matter what he thought; she didn’t care. She never had. _So stubborn, ma chere_. Sometimes he pondered the virtues of locking her away from the world; if he could just keep her here, in his arms and away from outside influences, perhaps he could keep her from doing ridiculous things. That thought alone hurt. Selfish. Pathetic. Absurd. Words to describe such desires. Taking a wild bird and locking it away in a gilded cage only strangled its magnificence until it became a sad, pitiful creature.

He gently smoothed a thumb over her lower lip, feeling the warm rush of her breath. The smirk that twisted his lips was both involuntary and pleased as she wrapped her lips around his thumb, sucking lightly. She stared up at him from under her lashes as she released him and offered a sleepy smile.

“Already trying to make sure I eat this morning?” she mumbled, slurring her words as her mostly-asleep brain attempted to make sense of what her mouth was saying. “You’re very persistent about keeping me well and… _nonsense_.”

“Call it asset protection, love,” he retorted, finding his teasing far more successful than hers. At least he wasn’t addressing most of his words to a pillow. “If you refuse to stay fit, _we_ can’t play.”

Victoria snorted, not even attempting to be dignified, as she rolled her eyes. Around a tired giggle she said, “Asset protection? Bloody _rude_. ‘M not one of your assets.”

Was that… _supposed_ to make his gut twinge uncomfortably? Was he meant to have a reaction to that? He didn’t know anymore. Luckily enough for his confused state, she kept herself from continuing with a yawn and snuggled deeper into the blankets.

She seemed to realise he was staring, for her attention returned to him. Blinking languidly, as though she might fall back to sleep at any moment, she added: “What d’you want?”

Reaver considered the question, electing to take it seriously for once. What _did_ he want? Gold, jewels, wine. The occasional dancing girl or a strapping young lad (or even the reverse) to entertain him. Superficial desires, really, to indulge superficial needs. However, to look at the question at a deeper level, he found things were…terribly muddled. _What_ did he _want?_ To not die. To not watch Victoria, or even Jack, die. Especially not because they had catered to the whims of some mad seeress. He wanted to go back to when his charade held _real_ power and actually kept him safe; to when being Reaver meant he was an island only to be feared and respected…to when it meant none of the concerns of the man he’d been _before_ could weigh upon him.

“I want you to swear you’ll not help Theresa,” he finally answered. His voice was intolerably grave, enough so that it grated upon his ears, but he couldn’t shake his thoughts enough to force it lighter.

She scoffed, though it sounded more like a sigh, and he could see the makings of a frown begin to settle over her features. “Do we _really_ need to discuss this now?”

“You asked…and you _are_ the one who recommended I attempt to communicate with you in a more equitable fashion.”

Victoria groaned, murmuring something that sounded somewhat like “too many big words”, before running both of her hands over her face. “I’d appreciate it if I were more awake. It’s not like there’s even anything to discuss.”

“I beg to differ,” he replied dryly. “Words _abound_...especially in regards to you throwing yourself into the path of danger yet again for this woman. And this time even _she_ is telling you she doesn’t require your assistance. Do you expect me to accept this is the only logical resolution you’ve come up with?”

“Reaver…I don’t…can we do this later? I promised Tushaar I’d find him a spot in the Castle’s library to work and I still have to pack…I’m just…so tired,” she said, punctuating her final statement with a heavy exhalation. “I…understand your concern, but I wish you were willing to come with me.”

“Let me guess: this is what you elect to use your favour for?” The words felt bitter. _Sounded_ bitter, he knew. A part of him wished he’d never agreed to give her an open ended favour (how long ago had that been? Seven years? Eight?) and yet he’d been so curious to see what she’d do with it. If this was what she was choosing, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

“No,” she mumbled. “No, I’d rather you decided to come because you wanted to. I’ll make do. Just…can I sleep and pretend everything is normal between us again?”

He nearly sneered. _“Normal”_. When had anything between them been normal? They’d always been combatant and, in the rare instances where they weren’t, they were selfish and manipulative. They _weren’t_ normal. And yet…. He mentally cursed, biting back the words in an effort to keep them from spilling forth. When had things gotten so complicated? When had he gotten so afraid that he would lose her?

She had already fallen back to sleep, breathing steady and expression unguarded. He dropped back against his side of the bed with a frustrated hiss of breath and raked a hand through his already tousled hair. _This is preposterous. Stop this; you’re being an utter fool_. It was too late. He’d already made up his mind—perhaps he’d made it up from the start. His conversation with Death and what little Theresa had told them was still fresh in his mind. Staying here, hiding from trouble, was something a man from another life would have done. Avoiding this…Devourer and letting Victoria fight it on her lonesome was…cowardly. He was _not_ a coward. He was _Reaver_. And violence and bloodshed was his home. He would go, he would fight, and damn anything that got in his way.

~ * ~

_The dream was a familiar one, though she rarely remembered it upon waking. A cold, fog-blanketed landscape where she could see little but shimmering white. She could feel droplets of mist on her skin, freezing but somehow pleasant. The ground beneath her bare feet was soft and damp—like a spring meadow; she could even see the palest splotches of colour on the ground as though flowers were attempting to make their existence known. But there was nothing else. Just a quiet, cold haze._

_She wandered, body numb and thoughts empty. What was this place? Theresa had long ago called her to a similarly eerie monochrome landscape for private conversations, but it was nothing like this. That world had mimicked the real thing in shape, though it lacked colour. This was simply…blank. But it was not empty. She could feel_ things _, presences, just out of sight and just beyond reach. But they_ were _there._

_“Hello?” she queried. Her voice had an oddly echo-y quality to it, as though she were calling into a well. It made her…unwell. Who could say what was listening?_

_The invisible forces seemed to buzz in response, filling the blank realm with an odd sense of movement. She could hear voices; hundreds, no, thousands of whispering voices all speaking en masse. It was terrifying. What were they saying? Were they talking to her? Did they want something from her? She didn’t know. It made her want to flee._

_Then she saw it, yet another familiar thing: a blue figure in the fog. Humanoid but thin and distant. And yet…strangely comforting._

_“—Black?” The word manifested in her thoughts as though someone had shouted it from the other end of a long, crowded hall._

_“I can’t understand you,” she replied. “Black what?”_

_A surge in the whispers unbalanced her, disorienting her, and when she was able to catch her balance all she heard was: “…of Black?”_

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

_“Are—” The whispers rose up, cutting through the deep voice as though it had never spoken a word. “—of Black?”_

_She didn’t know what it wanted from her. The same question. Every single time she asked. And she never heard the entire thing. Patience exhausted, she ran for the figure._

~ * ~

The armchair snagged as it slid from tiled floor to thick carpeting and Victoria gave it an extra hard push to get it over the large bump of the doubled-over rug. She paused to push the carpet back into place before resuming shoving the chair to the opposite end of the study. The thud of books being placed onto a nearby table made her look up. Her hair swung into her eyes at the movement and she quickly pushed it out of her face. Tushaar was shifting through piles of books, his pale hair mussed and his eyes narrowed. She almost envied his concentration.

“Are you certain this is all you need?” she asked, plopping inelegantly into the chair. She’d moved it to be closer to the table for his sake, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to sit in it in the meantime. “I could always organize a more permanent setup. You wouldn’t have to go back and forth every day. The others could stay here, too.”

“No,” he replied quietly, organizing the tomes in some order that made little sense to anyone but him. “I will not uproot them. The Rookridge abbey should be repaired by the end of the year…I don’t want them to continue needing to move. They’ll be happier in Millfields.”

“Are you certain?” she enquired again, concerned. “Judith doesn’t seem much pleased about anything.” Victoria still remembered the way the girl’s green eyes had narrowed at them, as though being in anyone’s presence was a disgusting inconvenience. She’d looked as though she hated being there. It would be a lie to say Victoria wasn’t worried for her.

Tushaar froze. His hands stilled on the books; after a moment, he set them aside and leaned against the table. “Judith is…not glad to be a Hero. Her abilities burden her. She is fearful of harming others.”

“Why? Can’t she control them?”

“No. She hasn’t learned. They manifested very suddenly. By what Ms. Marston has told us about Judith, their appearance startled her. Something caught alight, furtherly frightening her. Her Will fed on her fear and the blaze grew. The fire destroyed the entire house, along with everyone within it, and left its creator unharmed.” He paused once more, grave voice breaking off with a heavy breath, before finally continuing: “I’ve attempted to explain that it will not happen again if she can either control or repress her abilities. But repression is not working. And she seems terrified that gaining enough power to control them would only make for worse destruction if something were to go awry.”

“But it wouldn’t,” Victoria said quietly. She couldn’t help but find his story both confusing and worrying. She’d never considered that someone other than Reaver would dislike being a Hero. Never considered it would be frightening or something to disdain. Being a Hero had always been a point of strength to her—a thought that little could harm her and that she was meant for good and great things. She’d never considered there could be an opposing side to it. “Controlling her Will would keep future accidents from happening.”

“She does not believe it,” Tushaar replied. His expression indicated he’d had this conversation (probably with Jack and Evangeline…and even the mysterious Catherine) before and that the situation had remained unchanged since the last time. “She won’t speak of her feelings, but I believe she is…depressed. Horribly so. I fear what will happen if someone can’t get through to her soon.”

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew the answer would be resoundingly negative. Tushaar _had_ stated Judith didn’t want help. But…there had to be something, right? Alex could talk to her, perhaps, or even Victoria herself could speak with her, but…would Judith even listen? It didn’t hurt to try. “I have a friend…he’s a psychologist; he’s been helping me with something, but I could send him a note and ask him to speak with Judith. Or…I could leave his name and address with you to give to her. Then she could decide when she’s ready.”

Tushaar frowned, seeming to think it over. She could understand his misgivings. They didn’t really know each other. He didn’t know Alex. He couldn’t be certain he could trust them, but she hoped he did. She wanted to help wherever she could, however she could.

He sighed, nodding. “I will give her the address. And the name.”

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. She hoped it helped. And speaking of helping…. “Right! Before I forget again, I want you to have this.”

She fished in her coat’s pocket for a moment before yanking out a small copper disk; a guild seal. But it didn’t look like Victoria’s. Hers was unchanged since her father had used it: a simple brass ring around a disk of blue labradorite, which had also been set in brass, all held together with compass row-like spikes around a strange “S” shape. The one she held out to Tushaar was different. A single disk of malachite set in copper, swirls of which had been wrapped around the edges of the seal, though the middle still carried that strange symbol. Her father had had a small box full of them in the Sanctuary. All different designs and sizes; some elegant and exotic, others bland and nondescript. Some were rusted and broken, but most had been repaired and were just sitting there, waiting to be reactivated. She had no idea what he’d wanted with so many seals—certainly, Sparrow had been clumsy and reckless at times, but it wasn’t like you could destroy or lose an entire box of guild seals, was it?—but she was glad to finally have a use for them.

“If anything happens while I’m away, we’ll be able to contact each other,” she told him.

Tushaar took it with an intrigued expression; eyes narrowed as though he were attempting to make sense of it. “How does it function?”

“Channel a bit of Will into it and then speak. I should be able to hear you and do the same. Any Hero can use it.” She still had to test if ordinary people could use the seals, however. Her father’s journals and notes hadn’t covered that.

He gave her a single nod of understanding before slipping the seal into his pocket and turning back to his stack of books.

Victoria pulled herself up from her chair and stretched, tired. “I’ll go get you that name and address.”

Hopefully at least something good would come out of asking for Alex’s help.

~ * ~

Even the brine-y scent of sea air couldn’t completely blow away the putrid smell of coal smoke and factory waste wafting away from Industrial. Victoria’s nose crinkled in response and she pulled her hood further forward, keeping her face hidden. The docks were utterly packed with bodies. A myriad of different coloured gowns and suits in every direction she looked. Shouts rang out every few seconds, often overlapping: sailors calling back and forth between ships, pursers and stewards (sometimes even the occasional deckhand, depending on how fancy the ship was) shouting out boarding calls and asking for people to present their tickets, and everyone, every _where_ , chatting to whomever else happened to be in their party. Gulls and other waterfowl screeched overhead, somehow still piercing over all the voices.

Victoria held onto Theresa’s hand, attempting to lead the blind woman through the throng. She knew it wasn’t necessary, but she also didn’t want to risk losing her and not being able to find her again. Buffeted by yet another woman’s over-sized bustle, Victoria stumbled and cursed. Where the hell was Reaver? He’d gone to sort things out with the ship’s owner and captain before dawn, taking their two (very small) suitcases with him along with a letter Victoria had penned the previous night. Only two hours or so had passed, but there was no trace of him. If it weren’t for their need to keep a low profile and not attract attention, she might have tried giving him a call on the guild seal. Then again, if they weren’t trying to avoid being noticed, she wouldn’t have to worry about not finding him. All she’d have to do is follow the shouting.

“But, _Mama_ , I don’t _want_ to go by ship!” a girl wailed dramatically, drawing the queen’s attention away from cursing Reaver.

Victoria forced herself to an abrupt stop, trying to not crash into the small group of women that had cut in front of her. She couldn’t help but stare in horror. The matriarch, a middle-aged woman with hair the colour of steel, was clothed in what was quite possibly the largest gown Victoria had seen—an enormous bell-shaped skirt dripping in champagne satin and black lace in a good imitation of a melting trifle. Had she sat down, her skirts alone would have required their own couch. It was almost easy to over-look her four daughters, the youngest of which was still a child and the eldest in her mid-teens. It was she who was pouting.

“It’s _ever_ so _dreary_ ,” the girl continued, adjusting her honey curls to seat her hat better.

Her mother had, apparently, had enough and began to berate her in a shrill voice. Visions of being trapped in a ship’s cramped hallway behind this woman and her daughter swam through Victoria’s head and she felt her heart sink. _Oh, Avo,_ please _don’t let this woman or any like her be travelling with us_. She hated sea travel enough without dealing with stuck up people whom always seemed to know exactly where she was and had something they wanted from her.

“Is something wrong, Hero?” Theresa enquired. Her solemn voice was almost soothing as the woman and her children finally passed out of earshot.

“Nothing worth repeating,” Victoria replied with a faint grimace.

Theresa came to walk beside her, freeing her hand from Victoria offering a gentle smile. “Opulence is no new trend—not to Albion or to its nobility. Nor to myself. However harrowing it may be to witness.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? To see a world you’ve worked so hard to save be treated with so little respect? To see those people take so much for granted?”

“Perhaps once it did. But…that the world continues on is the important part, is it not? There is still a chance, Hero, for them to be better. To learn. It _is_ better than the alternative.”

“I didn’t take you for the hopeful sort.”

“While I may not run amok, singing joyous songs,” Theresa began, returning the apologetic nod of a dark, handsome young man who’d nearly walked into her in his rush with an understanding nod of her own, “I must still seek hope where I may. I See everything, Hero. All destinies, all possible futures. Were I to be hopeless, I would not still be alive.”

Victoria had never thought of it like that. How lonesome, how isolated it must be to be Theresa. She didn’t know if Theresa had anyone close to her but, frankly, the seeress didn’t seem the sort. Victoria couldn’t really blame her. To always deliver terrible news, even if good was to follow. To not be able to touch others without fear of delivering to them a terrible vision. Victoria almost felt relief that she did not share that fate. That didn’t make things any less awkward.

Before Victoria could voice any of her thoughts, however, Theresa added: “We are nearing the Thief. With any luck, our boarding will progress with little trouble or attention.”

The queen nodded along, pleased, before Theresa’s words sunk in. Her thoughts seemed to pause. With a frown, she enquired: “ _Why_ do you call him that? Why do _all_ of you—the Shadow Court…” _The Crawler_ , she thought, barely keeping from saying it aloud, “and yourself keep calling him a thief? Or Thief Prince? It’s….”

 _It’s cruel_ , she thought. _Cruel and demeaning_. Forcing him into a singular box based on supposed actions instead of him and how he may feel. Turning him into something less than a human. Into a monster or creature lurking in the darkness and under the bed. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, though. Most days, Reaver was an asshole.

“It is what he is,” Theresa replied evenly. Emotionlessly.

Victoria exhaled frustratedly, even more frustrated that she couldn’t place why she was so suddenly irate. “So you don’t think he can change?”

“It is not so much him changing, Hero, but his _desire_ to change.”

There was no more time to debate it.

Reaver was waiting for them near the ship, leaning against the side of a lantern post with the bored air of someone who had been waiting for far too long. She’d spent a particularly long time emphasizing to him that they needed to dress as nondescript as possibly for this trip, but she’d not thought he’d listened to her. She wondered if he’d actually listened to her a bit too well. His suit was dark, solemn, and dull—almost military in cut even with his over-long frock. Bowlers, Victoria decided, were not the most flattering hat style for him. She was also saddened to notice he wasn’t wearing a tie—it would be all the more difficult to lead him around. _Really not the time_.

“They say they’re ready whenever you are, but they would like to meet you first or some other such rubbish,” Reaver told them by way of greeting. He seemed insulted that the captain would think he was lying.

Victoria noticed he’d forgone the little heart shape on his left cheekbone, leaving his tiny birthmark exposed to the world. And she couldn’t place why, exactly, his hair looked odd to her. “We should go then,” she said, snapping out of her thoughts. “I can make introductions and stop holding the ship up. Hopefully this hasn’t inconvenienced them too much.”

He rolled his eyes, the childish gesture almost audible as he pushed away from the post. He gestured gracefully to the nearest gangway, the movement somewhere between a wave and a half-bow, as though to tell her to get on with it. Victoria nearly grinned. She knew perfectly well he was just being sour because he’d been dragged along. That didn’t mean she didn’t have to keep from being pleased that he was there, though. Her mood sobered. That didn’t mean this journey would be easy. _It’s a short trip_ , she told herself. _Get to Oakfield, get to the Spire, that simple_.

She hoped it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they got to the Spire quickly and nothing bad happened to anyone. -smiles angelically-


	9. 8. Underwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone keeping an eye on content warnings, cw for: drowning and implied character death.

The stars were lovely tonight. Or…what little of them could be seen. It was nearing on midnight and the ship’s deck was nearly empty but for Victoria and the occasional crew member on watch. She’d seated herself on the foremost part of the ship: the railing where the prow met the bowsprit. From here, she could peer up through the mess of sails at the sky. It was cloaked in clouds, now: dark, angry looking ones that swirled and drifted as if intending to smother the heavens. Every once in a while, though, a break would appear in the clouds and Victoria could see a smattering of stars like fairy lights in a dark forest. It was peaceful. Beautiful. And it almost made up for the sea-travel.

This trip had been…bleak. And tedious. They’d spent most of their time in their cabins, keeping out of sight. Reaver had complained incessantly until Victoria had found creative means of distracting him. She’d quickly found that, as pleasing as his mouth could be when not speaking or busy between her thighs, he was good at telling stories. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really—he spoke in lies as though they were his first language—but it was…nice. A decent distraction for them both. And so their days fell into an odd sort of rhythm: Victoria slept throughout the morning, would change, and then go speak with Theresa. Though the seeress maintained she was perfectly fine, it was plain to see that she was _not_ —odder still, she appeared to be in a near constant meditational state (as though the only way she could relax was to separate her mind and body). While she was busy with Theresa, Reaver usually went off in search of food. Unless the Captain invited Victoria to dinner, she and Reaver would sit for hours, just talking. She’d learned more about his previous adventures in the past few days than in the last eight years.

That wasn’t to say they didn’t occasionally require breaks from each other—hence her current position upon the ship’s prow—but it was still strangely pleasing to talk about things without having to constantly fight.

It wouldn’t last. Still, she could pretend.

She clutched a book to her chest, the fabric covering rough and worn under her fingers, and attempted to savour the cool mist of sea spray drifting over her face. Ships…why did it always have to be ships?

 _You_ could _have walked_ , a snide voice interjected.

 _Do please shut it_ , she replied with affected politeness. There was no need to rub it in.

“Doing our very best to not fall in, are we?”

Victoria started, body jerking in surprise, and she only just caught herself before she could go tumbling into the sea or, even worse, drop her book. Heart pounding, she turned toward Reaver and attempted to not give him a dark look.

“Very well done, then,” he told her, leaning his back against the railing as best he could. His smirk was lazy and relaxed—like a smug cat that knew it wasn’t about to get into trouble. “Bravo.”

She crinkled her nose in response. For Avo’s sake, she could smell him from almost a foot away. The stench of liquor and tobacco clashing terribly with the equally pungent aroma of other people’s sweat and sea water that almost seemed to be mildewing. _Ah,_ that’s _where he’s been all evening_. Victoria considered shoving him overboard. It would be doing everyone a favour, really; particularly him—when he was more aware of himself, he was going to be utterly disgusted…better save him the sorrow, right?

“Before you ask,” he supplied, cutting her off before she could even really speak, “I’m no drunker than usual.” At the look of disbelief being directed at him, he paused. Frowned. Appeared to be considering it. Holding his forefinger only a few centimetres from his thumb, he added: “ _Maybe_ a tiny amount.”

Victoria snorted, not believing him. “And have you quite finished depriving the crew of their wages?”

The expression he fixed her with was wounded, as though she’d kicked him. “I’ve done no such thing. I’ve kept almost perfectly even, _thank you_. Really, _what_ would your _father_ say to see you saying such _unspeakable_ things?”

This time, she couldn’t help it: she laughed at him. “I think my father and I _both_ know well enough to not believe you’re being good just for short voyage.”

“Good? I’m doing no such thing.”

“Of course not,” she allowed, playing along.

“Once we arrive in Oakfield, all these little sailors will be thoroughly convinced I am only mediocre at their games…once we’re on the return to Bowerstone, _that_ is when I’ll relieve them of their burdensome gold.”

“That’s… _horrible_ , Reaver,” she told him, not quite scolding and not quite surprised. “If you keep tricking people out of their gold, how do you intend to keep any of your friends?”

“I _don’t_.” Much quieter, he said: “I don’t _have_ any friends.”

Guilt hit her like a punch to the gut, and she resisted the urge to squirm in her discomfort—if only so she didn’t accidentally fall into the dark water below her. _“I could be your friend.”_ The words stuck in her throat like a physical object, tasting bitter and painful. She knew better than to think he wanted her pity, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have it. Ben, Walter, Jasper, Scarlet, Rowan, Jericho, Alex…and even Page, strained as their relationship could be at times, she counted them all as her friends. They could talk to and trust her, and she could do the same for them. She didn’t know what it was like to be truly alone. And she’d never truly considered whether or not Reaver was aware that his circle only cared for his gold and his power…and not really for him.

Of course he’d known. He couldn’t have missed it, observant as he was. That thought made her feel worse. She knew her father had considered him a friend, but…her father had been dead well over two decades now. And what about before that? How many long years had he spent alone before then? How much, exactly, did this explain? _Shit, have I been the asshole this entire time?_

“Not that it _matters_ ,” he added matter-of-factly, shaking her from her thoughts. “We’re about to be diverted.”

Victoria frowned, curious but wary. “What do you mean by ‘diverted’?”

“Did you not notice all the clouds, darling? The choppy waves? The sudden absence of water fowl assaulting us with their shrieks?”

“It’s the _middle of the night_ , Reaver; the birds are asleep, and, beyond the lantern light, I can’t see for shit,” she replied dryly. The sarcasm had been unnecessary and she was beginning to wonder why she’d pitied him to begin with.

“ _Before_ all that,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. His tone suggested he would appreciate less wilful ignorance and more actually listening.

Victoria sighed heavily, internally praying for patience, and attempted to be accommodating. “Fine. Yes. I did notice the sea seemed…rougher than normal. And everything’s been quieter than normal. What of it?” He didn’t reply and she pondered it for a moment, recognizing a test when she was handed one. If there was one thing he’d think was a concern, it was…. “You think the weather’s gearing up for a large storm? Again?”

“Mm, certainly appears so, does it not?” He accepted the book she held out to him as she attempted to clamber back onto the deck. “We’ll need to go _around_ , of course. A steamship would be unaffected, but these little clippers? The Captain won’t be able to keep near the shore or we’ll be run aground. He _will_ be forced to take us further out to sea.” He frowned, contemplating, and she could tell he was already beginning to sober up. “ _There_ is where it might get interesting.”

“How so?” Victoria stretched, feeling her stiff muscles and joints pop and creak pleasantly. She was wound up too tightly; perhaps, when she got home, she’d be able to spar with Scarlet…. Stifling a yawn, she accepted her book back.

Reaver simply smiled enigmatically. It wasn’t a… _nice_ smile. Or one that meant well. In fact, it actually seemed rather foreboding. “Oh…well, I’d hate to get your hopes up over nothing.”

She simply raised a brow at him. _Okay, then…_ now _I’m worried_. “Right… _well_. I’m going to find some tea…you _might_ want to consider finding a _bath_.” She grinned at his frown, wandering off with a little wave. “Just a suggestion.”

Let him be creepy and mysterious all he wanted. It didn’t bother her in the slightest. And it wasn’t as though it would affect her. …this was going to be bad, wasn’t it?

~ * ~

Reaver’s prediction came true midway through the following morning. The sea had turned rough and angry; the wind, howling. Under normal circumstances, Victoria would have probably slept through it. Instead, a particularly violent wave had her falling off her bed and wondering exactly how and when she’d gotten onto the floor when she finally gained awareness. From the sound of the cursing beneath her, it hadn’t been a fun journey.

Apologising, she disentangled herself and tried to squeeze out of the way enough for Reaver to slip past her. He seemed…soberer than usual and almost grumpy as he rummaged for some clothes. That was the only thing keeping Victoria from asking what was happening as she yanked on a pair of trousers. She was…intrigued, however. And concerned enough to follow him out into the hall when they were both dressed. Doors up and down the hall had been cracked open, people sticking their heads out to see what was happening and muttering back and forth in frustrated tones.

“Everyone please remain in your rooms! We _will_ inform you when it’s safe to come on deck! Please remain in your rooms or in the lower living quarters, thank you!” a crewman shouted from the base of the stairs leading up top.

“Stay here with Theresa,” Reaver murmured dismissively, turning to her for a split second.

“And _what_ , exactly, are _you_ going to do?” Victoria hissed. She received no answer, except for him to start for the crewman. She wanted to chase after him, remind him that she was capable and not in need of “keeping safe”. But then she remembered he’d never made a point of keeping her away from something for safety’s sake—if anything, the more dangerous something was, the more enthusiastic he approached it. And…she didn’t know anything about ships, whereas he did. She did, however, know how to protect someone if it came to that. If there was a problem that needed extra sailors, he could actually do something without being forced into the whole Hero mould. She could live with that…couldn’t she?

Nodding to herself, she turned and entered Theresa’s room. The seeress was resting, but awake and apparently unconcerned. Victoria envied that calm but was also more than aware that calm was counter-intuitive to keeping alert for any signs of trouble—it was something she would just have to _deal_ with.

Time passed at an awkward crawl. She could hear thunder and shouting up above—sometimes so clear she could hear actual words (though what “an eight! No, a nine!” had meant was beyond her)—and hurried pacing in the halls, but there was no other sense of time. The cabins had no windows and Victoria had no desire to leave the door open. And so they sat together, Theresa on her cot and Victoria in the only chair in the room.

“What’s it like?” Victoria finally enquired after a couple hours of stilted and awkward conversation. “Being a seer, I mean.”

“Solitary,” was Theresa’s reply. Silence followed, punctuated only by the heavy deluge of rain pouring down upon the ship’s deck above them. An enormous rumbling crackle of thunder filled the air, slowly trailing off into more distant grumbles as though the heavens were irritated. It was some time before, apparently intrigued, Theresa added, “Was there a reason for asking, Hero?”

“No…not really; I…could you _teach_ someone how to See things?”

Theresa smiled faintly at the poorly hidden curiosity in Victoria’s words. “Visions cannot be passed permanently between people. What you may See through touching me, is only temporary. And may not be learned. …I _can_ , however, show you other methods if you wish to learn them.”

Victoria did. And so they continued to sit together. Theresa taught her how to lay out and read tarot cards and know when they were indicating the truth or not. How to cast runes and learn their secrets—a feat made much more difficult as the waves tossed the ship about. Perhaps, Victoria decided, they were finally starting to get along.

~ * ~

Getting drunk last night had been an utterly terrible idea. Granted, he often _was_ drunk, but… _that_ drunk? Not for a while. Usually it burned off in his system too quickly. But last night…that had been embarrassing. That said, he couldn’t really recall everything he’d said or done, especially in regards to Victoria. Bits and pieces; small, bleary flashes of memory that left him feeling uncertain. Had he been a selfish prig? Had he said anything worthy of regret? He _couldn’t_ remember and that…that wasn’t a _good_ feeling. Damn it all, he’d been _trying_ ….

The roar of thunder shook him from his thoughts. He’d worked throughout the entire lapse, but...he was beginning to think this was fruitless. The sea had been giving them warning signs for days. The Captain should have known; should have _done something_. That they were even _in_ this situation was a mark of his lack of competence. This was an utter traves— ** _wait_**. Why, by every god above and below, were they continuing West? Did he even _realise_ what lay waiting further out to sea?

Soaked to the marrow and cursing under his breath, Reaver made his way towards the ship’s helm. The storm was making movement difficult. Not purely for the pitching of the ship, but also for how many times he had to stop just to ensure a line was tied down or someone wasn’t about to do something stupid. Honestly, with all the trouble this was causing, it might be easier if he just took command of the ship. _Easier_ …but not worth the effort. Besides, Victoria would be _disappointed_ ; he didn’t want _that_ now, did he?

“What _the hell_ do you think you’re doing?!” he shouted above the downpour and the din of the storm when he drew close.

The Captain barely offered more than a glance at him as he stood beside his helmsman. _Military man_ , Reaver had thought upon first meeting him, for few other people would have stood that rigidly. Even with the wind and rain, the Captain’s platinum hair was neat and his clothes were in order. Any other time, Reaver might have considered applauding his efforts. But not now. Now he was just angry.

“Taking us around this storm,” came the clipped reply.

“You can _not_ seriously be considering taking us further out to sea!”

“If you believe for a second I’ll chance us being run aground by sailing closer to shore, then you are sorely mistaken,” the Captain replied.

Was he insane? Did he not comprehend how incredibly stupid this was? They were already several leagues off course…and he wanted to take them even further from their destination? Even the helmsman’s disapproval was clearly visible on his dark, weathered face. Reaver couldn’t help but stare incredulously. “If we sail too close to Kraken’s Jaw, we’ll be dashed against the cliffs. If we sail into the Wreekdrift, in this weather, it’s as good as committing suicide! We need to chance the Stumbles!”

“With all due respect, _my lord_ ,” the Captain began derisively, “this is _not_ your ship. Your assistance is appreciated, but you have no say here. You can either continue to help my crew, or you may sit and wait with the other passengers.”

 _That_ was the exact moment Reaver realised they were going to die. Or…everyone _else_ was going to die. He would probably pull through. But the rest of the ship…? _Oh, fucking Avo,_ no _…Victoria…._

He didn’t quite remember getting back down to the deck or even going below. All he knew was that one moment he was glowering at the Captain and the next he was knocking on the door to Theresa’s lodgings. He waited a moment before rapping upon the door once more. He was well aware he was dripping water everywhere and that he looked like a drowned man, but, for once, he didn’t give a damn. If she would just _open the door_ ….

There was movement on the other side of the door after the third round of knocking and he moved aside to let Victoria out into the hall.

“What is it?” she asked, closing the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed behind the scar that split her face, but her eyes were serious and concerned and her mouth was set in a frown.

“Pack everything,” he said, not bothering to compose himself more than to steady his tone.

“Reaver, why? What’s happening out—”

 _There’s no time._ “Victoria, do you trust me at all?”

She fell silent, watching him with a piercing, level stare that almost always made him somewhat concerned about what it preceded. She drew in a breath, glancing at the empty hallway behind him, and nodded resolutely. “I do.”

He didn’t think he deserved that, but he appreciated it nonetheless. “Then will you _please_ just pack everything? We need to be prepared. I’ll come back for you as soon as it’s time to go. I’ll contact you with your seal if something happens before then.”

She wanted to argue, to demand an explanation—he could see it in her eyes. Instead, she simply nodded once more, murmured an affirmation, and made her way to their shared quarters.

He couldn’t help but feel calmer, more focused. They both knew what they needed to do, now. He could concentrate on keeping them alive until it was easier to slip away. The ship might have been doomed, but that didn’t mean they had to go with it.

~ * ~

Victoria had created an emergency kit as soon as she’d determined they were going to be travelling. Some food and their good, sturdy travelling clothes, and any other supplies she could think might be necessary in the event of everything going to hell. Luckily, her father’s endless bag was perfect for that. All they’d had to do was pack the stuff they would wear in the best case scenario and hope for the best. Of course, now, it seemed like the best wasn’t going to be happening. She’d stowed away their suitcases in the bag, and all their other scattered belongings, then did the same with Theresa’s things (though those were few in number). And, together, they sat on the floor. Waiting. Watching the door.

It was hours before the screaming started. Screams high and fearful and ending far too quickly. Victoria started to rise, staring questioningly at the ceiling as if she could see what was happening on deck. Something slammed into them, _hard_ , and sent the ship swaying. Victoria was thrown, unable to break her fall in time. She felt the skin on her inner arms burn and tear against the worn wood and winced against the pain even as she watched the scrapes heal themselves.

Up above them, she could hear screams and shouts again. People relaying orders. Things falling and sliding. Now there were gunshots, as well.

She pulled herself to her knees. “What, exactly—”

Something else slammed into the other side of the ship. An enormous boom and crack filled the air, making her ears throb. When the ship stopped swaying, it was listing slightly to one side. She could hear people, passengers, screaming and hurrying into the halls. Someone on deck was clanging the alarm bell. Victoria looked toward Theresa, wondering. The seeress seemed calm and detached, not worried in the least, but Victoria was concerned. Had this…Devourer found them? If so, why was it playing with the ship? Why not just…kill everyone?

 _This is not the Devourer_ , the voice in the back of her head murmured. It only seemed mildly interested in the situation.

 _How do you know?_ she asked it, curious. Was there some kind of bond between them? Was she right in thinking they were connected?

 _It does not feel like him_ , was the only reply she was given.

The door slammed open and she began to reach for the knife in her boot, stopping when she realised it was only Reaver.

“Do you recall when I said we’d need to leave?” he enquired, almost dryly, as he helped her to her feet.

She helped Theresa up in turn. “I’m guessing it’s time to go.”

They followed him down the hall, stumbling now and then at the odd angle and as people tried to push past each other.

“We need to move quickly,” Reaver murmured quietly. “To the life boat, as fast as possible. If anything that isn’t human comes toward you or grabs at you, play dead. Stop moving. It will ignore you and move on.”

“What is it?” Victoria enquired. She couldn’t help but be mildly afraid. What the hell was out there?

He simply shook his head as they finally broke free of the crowd. She followed him across the deck, barely keeping from breaking into an outright run. What was out there? She saw nothing but darkness. The sun had gone down, but most of the lanterns weren’t lit. She could feel heavy rain on her face, but she couldn’t make out much of anything. She could barely see the silhouettes of crew members along the railings, darker shapes against a dark background. Her heart lodged in her throat as one of those dark shapes vanished over the rails, dragged off by some mysterious force. _No, no, no._

“Victoria, we need to keep moving,” she heard Reaver say sharply.

“Help!” she heard someone shout back the way they’d come. “Someone _please_ help!”

Victoria had frozen, staring back at the hard-to-see mob. No one appeared to be helping. She glanced back at Reaver and Theresa and could tell by Reaver’s posture alone he already knew what she was thinking…and thoroughly disapproved.

“We do _not_ —”

“I’ll catch up with you,” she said quickly, cutting him off. “Someone needs to help them. Just…get Theresa to safety and I’ll find you.”

She didn’t give him time to make a rebuttal. Victoria bolted back the way they’d came from, searching and hoping she wasn’t too late. The threat of what loomed outside the ship was all but forgotten. She found the screaming person easily enough—a young woman, black hair falling out of its chignon and dressing gown slipping from her shoulder, standing slightly apart from the crowd.

“What’s wrong?” Victoria queried as soon as she’d reached her.

“My little brother!” the woman wailed, her eyes wet and puffy behind her glasses, “I can’t find him! He’s only five!”

Victoria attempted to calm her with a gesture, and quickly realised she had no idea what to do with her hands. “Where did you last see him?”

The woman paused, tears seeming to slow a bit as her attention focused on something other than panicking. “I-I lost track of him when we left the cabin.” Defensively, she added, “I thought he was following me!”

“I’ll find him,” Victoria told her, nodding understandingly. Now was not the time to argue about keeping better hold of children, nor was it really her place. She’d just turned towards the stairway leading below when Reaver’s warning flashed through her mind. Glancing toward the little boats people were loading in to, there was still a queue. Plenty of time…or too much of it being wasted. With a frown, she warned: “Stay low and find a spot where no one will accidentally trample you. If you see anything… _strange,_ stay there and don’t move. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

The woman nodded slowly, an expression of utter confusion settling over her features as she sniffled. “What— _who_ are you? Are you a Hero?”

Victoria had already started for the stairs and fought back the urge to let out a humourless laugh. _Yeah…I’m a Hero._

~ * ~

Sound seemed eerily dim and muffled below deck. There wasn’t a single person in sight. Doors stood open on each side of the hall. The flickering of the gas lamps along the walls at regular intervals had never seemed so ominous. Why didn’t this feel right? Why did it almost feel like the sea was holding its breath, waiting to deliver the final blow? _Get over it. Time to move._

She peeked into each room as she passed it, hoping to find the boy as quickly as possible. She found nothing. Bedding rumpled or strewn across the ground, stray shoes and bits of clothing, stuffed toys and a broken parasol, books toppled on to the floor, shattered liquor bottles; odd but singular pieces of insight into the lives of each person whom had stayed within. But, alas, no hiding children. Victoria gave a tired sigh, rubbed her eyes, and kept moving.

Peering into one room, she felt her stomach give an unpleasant twist. A series of spider web-like cracks ran the length of the far wall, tiny rivulets of water seeping in to run down and soak into the room’s rug. Something had hit them hard enough to crack the hull…and now the ship was both listing and unmoving. Had the other hit been worse? Were they…sinking? An even greater sense of urgency settled over her as she resumed her search.

Why? Why was it _always_ ships?

Another couple minutes of fruitless searching passed, stretching to feel like hours, before she finally heard a sound. Rustling in a room up ahead and to her right. She ran, boots squelching a bit against the damp rugs, and stumbled to a halt outside the cabin in question. A tiny boy had curled up in the middle of a bed. His black hair was tousled and stuck up at odd angles, and he was crying. Endlessly crying.

“Um…” Victoria hesitated, unsure what to say. Her track record with children was…spotty, at best. The last time she’d had to watch a child, it had cried the entire time. She didn’t know what she was doing wrong, but she didn’t have to pick up the child or even say a word for it to start bawling. And it wasn’t even as if she disliked them! Forcing a neutral expression in an effort not to show her nervousness, she went on as soothingly as possible, “Are…are you alright?”

He shook his head, tears streaming down his round face. He seemed…shy. Just as nervous about talking to her as she was to him.

“Did you lose someone? Your sister?” she enquired, inching into the room as though she were creeping closer to a live bomb. Receiving a slow nod in return, she added, “I think I saw her on deck. She was sad, too. She asked me to find you. Will you let me take you back?”

Letting out a fearful whimper, he shook his head again.

“Why not?” she asked, tilting her head slightly as she knelt down. The water was rising; she could feel it seeping into the knees of her trousers and through her boots. “Are you afraid?”

He nodded.

“Do you want to know a secret? I’m afraid, too. I don’t know what’s out there or what’s happening and that’s _really_ scary. But Heroes aren’t allowed to get scared, so I always have to pretend I’m not. That way I can keep people safe.” His tears were starting to stop and actually looked curious, now—no longer afraid. She was able to manage a smile as she held out her hand: “Do you think you could trust me to get you back to your sister safely?”

He sat there a long moment, making her worry she would have to just grab him and run back to his sister, then he swung his short legs off the bed and wriggled out of the bedding until he was standing on the wet floor, as well. He took two steps toward her before tottering back, grabbing ahold of a stuffed dragon, and resuming his trek to her. Victoria picked him up and, checking to insure he wouldn’t drop his toy, stepped back out into the hall.

The hall seemed even odder to her now, disorientating with a now pronounced tilt to the floor. She hurried on her way, splashing with every step. The little boy clung to her as though he was afraid she’d leave him behind if he let go. Or…maybe he was just afraid of falling.

Reaching the deck was like being able to breathe again. Absolutely nothing had changed, except the queue for the life boats was significantly smaller, but she was less panicked. At least, if the ship was going to sink, they wouldn’t be trapped below deck.

“Hyeon!” a worried voice shouted and Victoria looked up in time to see the boy’s sister rushing toward them.

“Iseul!” he chirped brightly in response, wiggling in Victoria’s arms. “Sissy!”

Smiling in earnest now, Victoria handed Hyeon over to his sister. “I don’t think he was hurt. He was very brave.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Iseul told her, holding her brother and hugging him close. “If you hadn’t found him and they made me leave him—”

“Let’s just worry about getting you into a lifeboat instead of what might have happened,” Victoria replied soothingly, already starting for the last of the queue. There was still something out there in the darkness. And finding Hyeon would be for naught if they were trapped on the ship while it sank. _Knowing Reaver, he’s been quiet about the boat he “procured”. If it comes to it, we can take them with us to Oakfield and arrange for passage back to…_ wherever _they’re from._ It was a risky plan, but it was better than dying…wasn’t it?

A pair of crewmen were struggling with the last of the passengers as Victoria carefully maneuvered a way through them for her little group. It was all men and most of them were angry, pushing and jostling each other as though that would somehow make the line go quicker.

After being elbowed in the gut yet again, Victoria heaved a sigh and, in her most queenly voice, called out: “THAT’S ENOUGH!”

It seemed to work, for the crowd’s volume instantly lowered by half—the rest easily muffled by the rolling growls and crashes of thunder and the endless rain. Everyone but Iseul had stepped away from her, giving her enough room to walk right up to the nearest crewman with ease.

“Y-Your Majesty,” he stuttered out, all previous orders of not disclosing her identity apparently forgotten, “you w-weren’t evacuated?”

“I elected to stay until everyone else had disembarked,” she replied crisply, ignoring the stares she could feel emanating from the men behind her. “Is there enough room for all these people?”

“ _Barely_ ,” was the reply. “We have… _one_ more boat—”

“Then _that_ is enough to get everyone to safety,” she said, cutting him off. She gestured to Iseul and Hyeon. “You can start with these two.”

Victoria could tell he wanted to argue—to state he had orders about such and such policy. But she also knew he was aware of the very same gunshots and screams that still rang out on occasion. After a moment, both crewmen exchanged looks. One gave an odd half-shrug and the one whom she’d been speaking to cringed and gave a defeated nod. Victoria quickly stepped aside, allowing people to pass her and slowly climb into the boat. Hyeon gave her a cheerful wave as he and his sister found a seat.

“Your Majesty, _please_ ,” the crewman pleaded, “you need to get to safety, too.”

“I—” She paused. Admitting Reaver had an almost empty boat meant there was less of a chance of anyone getting left behind. But almost everyone was in and there was still some room. If she let others get into their boat, then they would also become her responsibility until they reached Oakfield. Could she risk that? What if they didn’t make it or drifted off course? What if those people died? Then that was on her hands. For once, perhaps, she needed to just…follow Reaver’s advice and be selfish. Less people might get hurt. “Just worry about getting everyone off the ship—even the rest of the crew. The sooner the better.”

She stepped away from the crowd and walked into the darkness, heading for the other boat. She wondered just how long it would take the ship to sink and just how high everyone’s odds of survival were. There had to be a chance, right? Even if it was small?

Victoria froze. Lightning had flashed through the sky, an off red colour that didn’t seem natural, and temporarily illuminated the deck. She’d thought there was some debris in front of her—a collapsed beam from a sail, perhaps. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t a beam, it was a _tentacle_. And suddenly everything clicked into place. Why the sailors would be panicked over a monster they couldn’t see, why Reaver had been concerned about sailing further out to sea in a storm, and what could possibly hit a ship hard enough to crack and then break through the hull far from land. _Are we truly so close to Kraken’s Jaw?_ she wondered absently, her heart pounding in her ears. That meant they were good and truly off course. What madness had possessed the Captain to take them so far from— The tentacle moved and Victoria fought the urge to scream. _It’s still attached to the kraken…_.

It moved slowly, almost lazily, as though searching for something. Victoria remembered what Reaver had said about not moving and about playing dead. In theory, she could drop to the ground and lie still, but the amount of movement worried her. _How_ did krakens know if something was moving? She hadn’t a clue. Instead, she stood perfectly still.

She felt the limb move slowly around before, almost gently, giving her a prod. She bit her lip and kept still. Another prod, this time more forceful and somehow questioning. The smell was horrid—overwhelmingly briny and almost putrid, like that of rotting fish. But it wasn’t until it had wrapped around her middle and began to lift her that not fighting grew difficult. _Oh, Avo, oh_ fuck _. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t scream. Don’t move. What the fuck is it doing? Don’t move. Don’t move. I’m not edible! Don’t move._

The bang of a pistol, shortly followed by the bark of a rifle, cut through the sound of the rain. Victoria could feel the impact of the bullets in the way the tentacle twitched. The next thing she knew, it had let go of her and she was falling through the air. She hit the deck hard, landing in a tangled mass of netting and barrels. Her right hip and thigh throbbed from the impact and her tail bone stung. She pushed her sopping hair from her eyes, wincing with every move. _Ow…_.

From beneath the ship, a massive bellow of pain and anger sounded, loud enough to make Victoria want to cover her ears.

 _Get to the boat. Get to Reaver._ Almost frantically, she tried to crawl out the mess of rain-slick rope and heavy barrels. But her feet kept slipping and she kept getting tangled and it was taking far, _far_ too long. Gunshots rang out again, only stopping long enough for a reload. Water crashed off to port, louder than even the thunder. Victoria could hear cursing. And then running. She slowly pulled her head up, momentarily pushing aside her frustration, and felt her stomach drop out. Several of the kraken’s long, undulating limbs had risen up, higher than the main mast. She’d heard legends—who hadn’t, really?—of ships being dragged into the depths by the warm embrace of a kraken’s tentacles wrapped tightly around it. This…this _wasn’t_ going to be an embrace, warm or otherwise. All she could do was cover her head and brace for impact.

She wasn’t entirely certain she ever felt it.

Time became an odd construct, somewhat lost on her. She’d been on the ship, huddled amidst the barrels and nets, and suddenly she was falling. Something heavy was pulling at her. She felt her right shoulder pop, going the wrong way, and heard a nasty crack. The water rushed up to meet her, as a street would after falling from a high roof.

There was a gap in her memory for, in the blink of an eye, she was suddenly a few feet under the water, sinking lower by the second. Dazed and confused, she realised something on the surface was on fire. It should have been concerning, but the only thought that she could truly muster up was that, with all the red flashes behind it and the water between her and the flames, it was so _pretty…_.

_Right…time to swim._

_Okay._

She tried to kick upwards, but found her legs wouldn’t quite do what she wanted them to do. She felt a sharp pain shoot through her head, snapping her head backwards. Her yelp of pain escaped in a cloud of bubbles. Eyes burned from the saltwater. She tried to move her right arm, but found it wouldn’t move.

 _It’s dislocated,_ her mind supplied helpfully.

 _Oh…right…,_ she agreed. She was dimly aware that there should be another voice in here—the grumpy one—but everything just seemed so…muddled.

_Try the other arm._

She did, reaching back to find her hair tangled in the thick ropes of some netting…which probably accounted for why she couldn’t kick properly. She gave the rope a tug, feeling a sharp pull on her scalp in turn. She stopped, giving in. It hurt too much and she was just…so tired….

 _So this is it?_ the grumpy voice finally input, somehow seeming disgusted with the entire set of circumstances. _This is how we end? After all the fighting, child…you give in to Death so willingly?_

 _It hurts,_ she told it stubbornly. She wanted to watch the red lights, not fight. The lights were soothing.

_And I have not hurt you? I have not made you bleed and cry and scream? I have not made you suffer?_

It…had a point. The first two years they’d spent together, it had delighted in making her ill, even when they had been on the same side. In making her scratch long gouges into her skin and forcing her to relive terrible memories. She’d only barely kept it from stabbing her once. It wasn’t until she’d figured out how to use Will against herself that it had had withdrawn enough for her to regain total control of herself and live almost normally again.

 _Now you cannot even summon the urge to free yourself,_ it went on. _This is pathetic._

Her thoughts went quiet again and she drifted listlessly. Watched the surface slowly grow further from her as she sank. This wasn’t so bad…was it?

 _No, it’s right; this_ is _pathetic,_ she told herself. _What are you doing? Giving up? Did you just…_ forget _about your quest and the people counting on you? What about the threat in the Edgelands? Are you just going to quit?_

Well, in those terms, it really _did_ sound bad. It just…everything hurt…and how was she supposed to get free, anyway?

_Knife in your boot. Cut yourself free. Do it. **Now.**_

She wasn’t sure where she mustered up the ability to use the net to help pull her legs up to arm height and retrieve her little knife. Trying to untangle the netting from her feet, however, was too complicated with her only hand full and so she simply sawed through the ropes. She tried to tread water, control her descent a bit, but the net and whatever else was too heavy. Cutting it was a problem, though…she wasn’t going to be able to see it at all. What if she cut the wrong rope?

_Then cut through your hair._

Any other time, the thought would have horrified her. But her lungs were screaming for air and it was already so hard to think or move…it was the only option. She pulled her head forward, reached awkwardly behind her head, and started cutting. The strands broke easily. She could feel the pressure against her scalp slowly begin to fade. The weight of the ropes helped the few loops wrapped around her dislocated arm slide off. And then she was free.

_Now swim!_

She kicked toward the surface, struggling with only one usable arm. She kept at it, trying to swim as fast as she could. It felt like she was going nowhere. Her lungs hurt. Everything _hurt._ And she had to keep going up, or all of this was for nothing. _Everything_ was for nothing. And she couldn’t let that happen. Had to keep going…had to—

When she finally broke the surface, it was with an enormous splash and a gasp for air. She’d never had a breath hurt so badly in her life. Nor had it ever felt so victorious. It was still storming and she couldn’t see any of the life boats or anyone else in the water, but she was alive. Wreckage and debris were everywhere, some of it still burning. She slowly paddled toward the nearest bit of wood that looked large enough to support her and awkwardly pulled herself atop it.

Now able to somewhat rest, all of her injuries felt ten times worse. Laying there, she idly raised her good hand and flipped off the sky. She had no idea what, exactly, it was directed at—be it the storm, this quest, or just life in general—but she felt extremely pleased with herself for it. _I’m still here._

She stayed there, drifting, and tried to keep from falling asleep. She needed to put her arm back in place, but she didn’t have the energy right now. Needed to try and find one of the life boats to get her toward wherever Theresa and Reaver were. But moving seemed too difficult. Resting…resting wasn’t such a bad thing, right?

Her mind drifted as though she were in a fog. Strange thoughts kept chasing themselves around her head. She was certain that, several times, she heard someone call her name. But no one was ever there. And, throughout the entire time, it never stopped raining. She was starting to wonder about that. And about the red lightning. Pretty, pretty flashes…and yet, why did it seem to be coming from the Spire’s direction? That was important…wasn’t it? She didn’t know anymore. Even without the rain, the Grey Sea was cold. It wasn’t much warmer out of the water.

Whether it was minutes or hours, Victoria didn’t know. All she was aware of was that, quite suddenly, a couple pairs of careful hands had lifted her up from the wreckage. She forced her aching eyes open and realised that the hand on her shoulder must be Theresa’s. There was no word in any lexicon she knew of to describe the look Reaver had fixed her with, except that, in normal circumstances, it would have made her feel extremely guilty.

As it was, she smiled deliriously at him and, teasingly chiding, said, “Took your bloody time.”

And then promptly passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krakens are friend-shaped. :D
> 
> Bit of trivia: "an eight! No, a nine!" refers to the Beaufort scale. The scale was created in 1805 as a means to relate the wind speed and its affect on the land and sea; it became enforced in all Royal Navy vessels by the 1830s and is still in use today. An 8 on the scale is a gale, a 9 is a "severe gale". I dunno if Albion would actually have a scale like this, but I find it hard to believe they don't have something similar if ships are one of their main means of long distance travel.


	10. 9. The Last Flight

Victoria awoke to the angry screeches of gulls and bright, burning sunlight. Everything hurt and throbbed, but she slowly managed to pull herself into a seated position and open her eyes. They’d washed up on a shore somewhere. The life boat had been wedged into a position to protect them from the elements and the remnants of a tiny fire were smoking nearby. She rolled her right shoulder experimentally, pleased to find it was just about fully healed.

She glanced around, hoping for some indication of where she was, and noticed Theresa kneeling…about where Victoria’s head would have been, had she been laying down. Her throat felt dry and her lips cracked as she murmured, “How long was I out?”

“You slept through the night,” Theresa replied. She looked as tired as Victoria felt, _and_ as much a mess. “We feared you would need longer to recover.”

“I’m fine…I think,” Victoria said, though she was uncertain if the words were true. Theresa’s usage of “we” gave her pause, and she realised that they were utterly alone. “Where’s Reaver?”

Theresa’s lips pursed and some of the ease of her posture faded to be replaced with not-so-subtle disapproval. “He expressed a desire to learn where we are and left in search of a road.”

Victoria crawled out from under their make-shift shelter and pulled herself to her feet. The sun didn’t look as though it had been up for long—not even visible past the sheer cliff faces behind them—but, after the storm and being inside for almost a week, everything was almost painfully bright. She took a couple steps towards the water, stretching. Her muscles were stiff and her joints kept giving tiny pops. A series of crackles ran down her spine and she instantly felt some of the tension leave her back. She scratched awkwardly at her neck—her skin felt dry and tight after her…uh… _swim_ —as she looked around the shore line. There was nothing. Far out to sea, she could see the Spire. The ancient tower was surrounded by a miasma of thick, dark clouds and lightning flashing scarlet, but was no nearer their grasp than the heavens. She could see no boats, or krakens, floating in sight either.

Turning back towards Theresa and the shelter, she fought back a frown. The cliffs fanned out in either direction, winding around corners and out of sight. She looked first north and then south and realised she couldn’t recognize where they were. All the land looked _so far away_ , stripped of any identifying landmarks. For a brief second, Victoria considered using her seal and calling the Sanctuary in hopes that Jasper might be able to locate them. She immediately silenced the thought. She couldn’t risk the chance it might draw the Devourer to them; they needed as much of a head start as they could get.

“I’m going to go look for him,” she announced, checking the bag at her hip. It didn’t appear anyone had touched it. So Reaver had gone out alone…and unarmed…without knowing what was out there. The urge to put her face in her hands had never been so strong.

“To what end, Hero?” Theresa enquired. She’d still not left the shelter and her voice was _icy_ at best. “He is more than able to protect himself.”

“As am I; but that doesn’t mean we don’t still need help on occasion.”

“ _If_ he elects to return, he will do so in time.”

“But how much time will be lost?” Victoria shot back, ignoring the insinuation that Reaver had probably abandoned them and so they should do the same. “Stay out of sight, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

She’d seen a set of footprints in the rock-strewn sand leading south, but they’d doubled back upon themselves, and so she started north. Her boots slipped and slid on the loose sand and stones as she stumbled onwards. Waves languidly rolled to meet the shore on her left and the cliffs continued winding away on her right; she was almost grateful for them for they kept her in the shade. Where were they? She hadn’t been to Oakfield very many times in her life, but she didn’t recognize this area at all. Oakfield was all rolling hills, sprawling farms, and ancient oak trees. Not cliffs, and from what little she could see looking up, heath and evergreens. The air didn’t feel right either. She couldn’t quite place why, but it set her on edge.

She wandered all but aimlessly, with no thought to direction except to keep going as straight ahead as possible. It was only an hour or so later that she finally realised that a distant silhouette was actually a person moving toward her. In response, she picked up her pace.

Reaver barely acknowledged her when she finally reached him; instead, he elected to focus his gaze on the upper edges of the cliffs. Victoria’s greeting died in her throat. What was there to say? She couldn’t exactly condemn him for going out on his own when she often did the same. What then was appropriate? _“I’m sorry for nearly dying. You were right; I should have gone with you instead of remaining behind.”_ No, that was far too overly-apologetic. She wasn’t sorry for staying behind, though…perhaps she _did_ feel a little guilty for putting herself in such a bad situation. _“Thank you for saving me before I froze to death.”_ Too nonchalant. Even in the privacy of her own thoughts it sounded like a mockery. And, honestly, it wasn’t as though she was going to stop running blindly into situations, so…did it even really count if she apologized?

“Did you find anything?” she blurted, words spilling unchecked from her mouth like vomit. She felt her stomach reflexively twist as she cringed. That was…in no way what she’d intended to say. Not that it mattered any longer, unfortunately.

He finally glanced away from the land and towards her—something about the set of his jaw suggested great… _displeasure_. Still, he cocked a brow at her and, in as normal a voice as ever, replied pointedly, “ _Good morning_. It appears the only way forward is over these rather… _unsavoury_ cliffs.” He sniffed derisively, frowning briefly to himself. “And, if you enjoyed that, I’ve something to lower your spirits.”

“’Morning,” she amended hastily, her heart sinking even further. “What is it?”

“We’re within no short distance of Oakfield.”

Though she’d had a feeling that was the case, it was nonetheless disheartening to hear. “How bad is it?”

Reaver had not stopped walking when she’d reached him. He continued on, heading back the way Victoria had come with an almost unfocused, but still hurried, air. Victoria followed him a bit awkwardly, wondering if she should have followed Theresa’s advice to remain at their makeshift camp.

“How far south did you happen to travel before venturing forth towards me?”

“Not at all. Your footprints doubled back…there was no reason to look.”

He responded with a noncommittal hum and a vague gesture of his hands as he continued: “Had you travelled south for…say three-quarters of an hour, you would have come across what I believe to be the river Ironwash.”

Victoria fell silent, trying to conjure up the mental image of the maps she’d studied before their travels had commenced. If she was remembering correctly, Ironwash River was what separated Kraken’s Jaw and Shalefields from Kraken’s Snout and Fairwood—far, far north of where they were meant to be. “That… _can’t_ be possible. We can’t have physically moved so far in such a short amount of time.”

“You’re preaching to the _wrong person_ , lover. It _should not_ be possible, and yet…here we stand.”

“We need to find a town,” Victoria replied, shaking her head slightly. “See if anyone can tell us where we are and how to get where we need to be.”

“I agree. However, the more pressing issue, I feel, is getting up to the road.” There wasn’t a trace of his usual smirk or bravado to be found. If anything, he appeared to have been swallowed up by an uncharacteristic solemnity, his brow furrowed and eyes narrow in response to something only he could know. “I’ve searched for hours and the lowest cliff point is still…several times higher than myself.”

_How are we going to get Theresa up those cliffs?_ she thought, attempting to bury any awkward or difficult to explain feelings beneath the focus that came with solving a problem.

They continued on without further words. The soft rush of water hurrying to meet the shore filled the air, punctuated occasionally with bird calls. Twice Victoria made to reach for Reaver’s hand, and, both times, she stopped herself with a reminder to not be nonsensical. That didn’t make it any easier, though; at what point had she began to crave his touch when she sought comfort? She wasn’t certain. But the revelation made her stomach twist.

~ * ~

He wanted to scream. Or, at the very least curse. Shout. Anything to get through to her that he was _angry_ and that _she’d hurt him_. But he didn’t expect she would listen. She certainly hadn’t when he’d asked her to hurry and come with Theresa and himself instead of trying futilely to save people who probably couldn’t be saved. She never listened to him. Never considered how much of a loss it would be if she were to die and it was…infuriating. He didn’t trust himself to speak to her without shouting and so he forced himself to remain silent, seething as they gathered Theresa, explained the problem of getting up to the main road, and began the trek back towards where the cliffs had been lowest.

And still the image of Victoria when they’d found her was seared into his mind. Pale and cold, barely moving; her hair and eyelashes touched by frost. One of her arms had lain at an unnatural angle and one of her legs had been swollen to twice its normal size. He’d thought she was dead. And, almost immediately, he’d been transported back to _before_. The night _that town_ had crumbled before his helpless eyes. Except this was worse. Because that was then and this was now and he was supposed to be _beyond_ such things but he _wasn’t_. He wasn’t. Neither was she, but she didn’t seem to understand that. She was utterly careless with her life. And he couldn’t help but think that, if she were going to force these feelings upon him, she might as well take as much interest in preserving her future for as long as possible.

Not that she would probably care if he bothered to tell her. If her previous nonchalance was any indication, she didn’t care at all. Reaver wasn’t certain how much longer he could handle this.

~ * ~

Fetching Theresa and filling her in on the situation had taken far less time than Victoria expected. And, to her even greater surprise, Theresa hadn’t seemed all that concerned about the vast height of rocks she was being asked to climb—she’d even refused Victoria’s offer to find another way to help her reach the clifftops. The trek back up the beach, however, felt unduly long. Theresa was quiet, apparently lost in thought, as they walked and Reaver was perfectly silent, somehow conveying the fact that he was seething even without spoken words. Victoria didn’t know what to say to either of them. Random questions and observations flitted through her head, each more meaningless and dull than the last. Ironic, really, that she’d known both of them for so long but was unable to strike up a simple conversation without business to discuss. But that didn’t make her any more eager to break the ice and start chatting.

Besides…it was probably for the best that Reaver was allowed to cool down without provocation. There truly _was_ no need to start a fight.

The stretch of rock Reaver led them to also pleasantly surprised Victoria. At most, it was twenty meters high and, as with the rest of the cliffs, covered in small out-croppings that would be easy to use as hand holds. _Perhaps this won’t be so bad_ , she thought to herself.

Theresa went first, somehow moving as steadily and smoothly as if climbing were a normal, everyday occurrence to her. Surprised by the blind woman’s mobility, Victoria followed close behind. If need be, Victoria was prepared to grab onto her in the event of a fall or climb up ahead of her to help her up. But there was no need. Theresa managed quite well and, in time, the trio reached the top.

Arms and legs burning, Victoria took a moment to catch her breath. _I_ really _need more practice climbing._ Despite the heat of the late morning sun, the breeze was cold and Victoria savoured it. They stood at the edge of a wide dirt road, pitted and grooved with the markings of many horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. Wind-blown juniper and buckthorn had long ago cropped up in small thickets along the road side, clinging to the boulders along the cliff edge and the ancient stone ruins built into the mountainside on the opposite side of the road. There wasn’t a single house or person to be seen.

“Avo, we’re _alone_ up here, aren’t we?” Victoria breathed, heart sinking further than she thought possible.

“No more alone than we were before,” Reaver replied evenly, looking out at the expanse of sea behind them as though the waves were whispering their secrets to him.

Before Victoria could add a comment, Theresa added, “We must continue south. There is a town; it will be helpful to recover there and get our bearings.”

Following after the seeress, Victoria started to agree but halted as a thought occurred to her. If Theresa could not See—leastwise, not as clearly as previously—then how did she know about the town? Actually, come to think of it, how did she know what direction they needed to travel in and if it would be suitable for their purposes? _Don’t_ , she chided herself. _We’re out in the middle of nowhere with no cover and very few supplies; wait until we’re safely in a town before you start with any accusations._ She stifled a sigh and kept walking. To her right, Reaver began to speak. Victoria quickly caught his eye and shook her head. Not worth a fight.

But he ignored her efforts and, with enough scepticism to make Victoria cringe, drawled: “Oh, is there really? My, and however _did_ you happen to _see_ this? Have they finally begun creating maps to lead the blind out of the problems they create for others? Or is this merely some newfound ability that only meddling old _hags_ have the power to make use of?”

_What the_ fuck _, Reaver?_ It took every ounce of self-control to not blurt the words out loud. She turned the words into a disapproving glare, annoyed that he would start this up again. Once again, she found her efforts ignored. Whatever was bothering him, she hoped he got over it soon. At this rate, she considered just letting Theresa and Reaver continue the journey on their own. Maybe the town would be nice enough she could take a little holiday. (There was no chance of that, of course, but sometimes it was nice to imagine being capable of telling her problems to bugger off and come back later.)

Thankfully, Theresa ignored him and they continued onward without further interruption.

Thick puffs of clouds drifted lazily across the sky, occasionally blotting out the sun. The smell of pine and the sea reminded her of yule at the castle, just not as pleasant. It was utterly desolate. Looking out to sea, she couldn’t even see any ships. What had the Captain been thinking coming this far north? Had he even been in control of his senses? Had anyone else survived the wreck? …how long did they have until the Devourer caught up with them? She wanted to ask, but was afraid of the answers—provided Theresa had them, of course.

They continued on for several hours. At one point, Victoria finally remembered they’d not eaten lately, nor drank anything, and passed around what few rations she had, along with the only bottle of water she’d packed. Once they were all done munching she resumed fishing through her bag. Her fingers brushed an assortment of random items—clothes, books, vials…other bags. She freed her shoulder harness from the pouch’s confines and shimmied into it, buckling it under her bust. She had nothing to hang within it, but it couldn’t hurt. Next she retrieved her twin knives. Unwilling to stop the group just to slip into the sheathes, she lashed one end of each sheathe together and, with just enough room to wrap around her waist, tied it over her belt. _Crude, but effective._

She retrieved Reaver’s Dragonstomper .48 and holster and wordlessly handed it to him, hoping he wouldn’t immediately decide to use it on Theresa. When he didn’t take the pistol, she chanced a look at him. A confused frown settled over her features in response to his mischievous, almost boyish, grin.

“Is that my pistol in your hand or are you just happy to see me?” he quipped.

Victoria scowled. “No. _No_. First, that’s a _terrible_ joke. Second, it doesn’t even _work_ in that context…in _any_ form!”

“Only if you’re not being pedantic about it,” he replied sounding very nearly cheerful as he finally took the gun from her.

“Oh? _I’m_ the pedant for stating something is not anatomically or relatively possible? And what does that make _your_ terrible jokes?”

“Fabled.”

She rolled her eyes at his smug smirk and resumed the search for his walking stick. It _had_ to be in her bag _somewhere_. She rummaged for a few more minutes before finally catching hold of it. A slim length of dark, shiny wood capped in stamped gold…it didn’t look like the walking stick he usually used, but she decided not to question it and handed it over.

Following a particularly twisty bit of road, they passed the shattered remains of crashed gypsy carts and carriages, smashed into the side of the mountain and half-sunken into ditches on the roadside. There was no sign of the horses that had driven them nor the people whom had owned them. The clouds thickened overhead, filling the sky with heavy swatches of grey. Victoria hoped desperately that it was merely a bit of cloud cover and not another storm, but, even as she thought it, she felt the first few random droplets against her skin.

They wandered into what Victoria could only describe as an ancient plaza—a round clearing paved with uneven stone slabs and fenced in with crumbling, waist-high walls. A mound of broken rock and tangled weeds sat in the very centre, forlorn and beyond repair. This was it, she realised, the point where the sea met with the river Reaver had mentioned that morning. They’d entered near the edge of the plaza and so, while Theresa began cutting across it to get through faster, Victoria hesitantly peered over the edge of the fence. The waves churned frothy and white far, far below. Stomach clenching, Victoria pulled her gaze up to the cliffs on the opposite side of the river. It looked like an abandoned town had been built into the cliff face; spindly equipment stood proudly amongst the buildings and flags fluttered in the wind, but there appeared to be no other signs of life. Completely deserted.

_That can’t be the town Theresa was talking about_ , Victoria thought. _It’s so far away and there’s no way across_. They were slowly coming to mountains, as well, and so it seemed improbable that they could just easily find where the gap between the cliffs was narrowest and hop across with no trouble. Shaking her head, she turned to follow Theresa and found Reaver had stopped beside her, a strange expression having settled over his features.

“What is it?”

“Just a sudden thought that this would be a perfect place for a bridge.”

Victoria glanced back at the expanse between the two sides of the river. Both were even enough that a bridge wouldn’t be impossible, but getting the supports high enough…that seemed rather challenging. Regardless, there was nothing to be done about it now. “It might be…ask me about it later?”

He didn’t respond and she gently rested her hand on his shoulder before following Theresa once more.

~ * ~

By dusk it had started storming again; heavy drops falling relentlessly down upon them. At one point, they had to stop and wait for Victoria to find cloaks in her bag before trudging onwards again. Everyone’s mood had taken a turn for the worse. Tired, hungry, and aching, Victoria couldn’t wait to find a place to rest. She was about to propose they camp in the woods lining the road when she spotted lights flickering through the branches ahead.

“We must be getting close,” she observed, more to hear a sound other than the rain than anything else.

“Yes,” Theresa confirmed. “We are not far now. The village is just ahead.”

Victoria bit back the sarcastic remark that had immediately sprung to mind. She could hear Reaver grumbling something that was mostly obscured by the sound of the downpour.

They stumbled, muddy and irascible, in to the town…or, more accurately, the town slowly began to spring up around them. Houses began to appear, lights glimmering in their windows. Victoria saw one, little more than a ramshackle hut, with a weathered gypsy caravan sitting near the front door and marked for sale. More houses passed by, in various conditions, before they reached the town square. Only a handful of people were milling about: a blacksmith in her shop, movement in a bakery’s window, a few children running about. The trio slowly made their way towards the largest building they saw—a slanted, two story dwelling with a sign proclaiming “The Edge of The World” in large, block letters. Beneath it, in a much smaller font, could be read: “The Ogre’s Head Tavern – Open Noon – Midnight”.

None of the patrons seemed to pay them any mind and, before Victoria could offer to go look for the owner, a middle-aged woman with short, greying hair had come to stand before them. “Oh! Travelers!” she exclaimed cheerily. “We don’t get many of you ‘round these parts. What can I do for you?”

Victoria slowly lowered her hood, glad to be rid of it. Though it had helped keep the rain off her, it had trapped the moisture in the air and her body heat inside, leaving her sticky, sweaty, and uncomfortable. “We shipwrecked off the coast northwest of here, ma’am,” she replied as politely as she could possibly manage, “our location would be very much appreciated so we might get back on track.”

“Lodgings and a meal, as well, if it’s not too difficult for you,” Reaver cut in dryly, not bothering with politeness.

“You’re in Duncton’s Halt, miss, and…,” the woman trailed off, blinking slowly. Victoria felt her stomach clench uncomfortably as realisation slowly dawned on the woman’s ruddy face. “Aren’t you—?”

“Yes, and we _really_ don’t need attention drawn to us right now,” Victoria replied quickly, trying to keep her voice down.

“Oh! Yes, Your Majesty, I promise my husband and I shan’t tell a soul.”

Ignoring Reaver’s exasperated sigh (which she was willing to bet had been accompanied by an annoyed roll of his eyes) and the feel of the woman’s gaze as she took in their dishevelled appearances, Victoria idly wondered where exactly the woman’s husband was. Working in the kitchen, perhaps? Or busy elsewhere? _Doesn’t matter,_ she chided herself. _Get back on target._ “Unfortunately, my friend here is correct: we _do_ need to purchase a meal…and some rooms. If you have the space. Actually, two rooms might be better.”

“Purchase? I…I couldn’t let you _pay_ —”

“I insist,” Victoria cut in before Reaver could agree to the woman’s terms. She could feel the disapproval he directed at her, but continued to ignore him. Sure, there’d probably be other things they needed gold for that were of more importance, but wasn’t she meant to be some sort of example to her people of how to act and all that?

“I…erm…rooms fourteen and fifteen are in the best condition, but there’s only two beds between them.”

“That’ll be perfect, then.” She forced a bright, practiced smile.

The woman looked suspiciously between the three of them, as though waiting for Victoria to suddenly announce there was a catch. When no such proclamation was forthcoming, the woman finally murmured, “Follow me please, your majesty, and we’ll get you a table.”

They did as bid, following the woman to an out of the way table in the far corner of the room and placing an order. She took it with an oddly focused expression that made Victoria wonder if reading and writing weren’t one of her fortes, before sashaying off with a murmur about getting their keys.

It wasn’t until the woman was out of earshot that Reaver finally drawled, “ _Well_. I see you’ve found us a perfectly _charming_ little _hovel_ to sleep in. It should be _very_ defensible when the beasties attack in the night and _blow it down_.”

Though she was unsure whether his words were directed at herself or Theresa, Victoria bristled. “We could sleep in the _woods_ , if you prefer. I’m certain it’s _so_ much safer.”

He paused, mouth slightly agape as though he’d prepared himself for an entirely different answer and was now unprepared. He slowly closed his mouth, licked his lips, and dismissively huffed, “Very well. I suppose here is as good as anywhere.”

Victoria resisted the temptation to smirk…barely. In her not-so-humble opinion, Reaver ought to be flustered and off balanced as often as possible. Whether or not it taught him humility or not was up for debate, but she _did_ enjoy the sight of him ruffled.

“It matters little where we rest,” Theresa said, speaking for the first time since their arrival. “What matters is that we are now aware of where we are. After we have recovered, it should be easy for us to find our way once more.”

“Right,” Victoria agreed, fishing a map out from her bag. “So we’re—” She broke off, flashing a smile as the woman returned with two keys, their drinks, and some cutlery. Once the woman had wandered off again, she went on: “We’re in Duncton’s Halt, so that means…we’re in Fairwood…definitely in the Edgelands.” She laid the map down and attempted to smooth it out enough to point to the miniscule dot marking the location in which they currently resided.

“That hardly seems correct,” Reaver remarked, punctuating the sentence with a sip of wine…which, from the way his disdainful look turned to a deep frown and then to an awkward acceptance, was nowhere near what he’d had in mind (but she was certain he’d drink it all anyway).

“And yet we’re here.” Victoria stared down at the map a moment before tracing a path with her finger. “Here. This road travels through Fairwood, Mare’s Teeth, Thorndeep, and Miremoor before branching south where it eventually meets with the road to Oakfield. All we have to do is follow that and we’ll be where we should be.”

“I’m afraid the necessity of travelling to Oakfield has long since diminished, Hero,” Theresa told her.

“What do you mean?”

Long moments passed without Theresa showing any inclination to shed any light on the subject. The server returned briefly and brought soup, meat, cheese, and bread with butter along. As she walked off once more, Victoria watched as Reaver struggled to conceal a not-so-delicate cringe. The tops of each bowl of soup—a chunky beef stew, if her guess was correct—had thick layers of grease and the meat—which Victoria didn’t even want to take a stab at guessing where it came from—was unevenly cooked, some pieces practically burnt and others looked raw. As Theresa reached for a bowl, Victoria found Reaver’s booted feet with her own…and stepped down. The look she got in return was wide-eyed and wounded, but she wasn’t really looking at him as she found the most evenly cooked pieces of meat and moved a piece on to his place, taking the worst ones for herself.

They remained silent for a turn as everyone tucked into their meals. Though the meat and stew were less than impressive, Victoria quickly discovered the bread was fantastic. Thick and crusty around the edges but warm and fluffy in the middle. She liberally buttered a piece and, with more enthusiasm than most would have deemed necessary, devoured it. It was delicious. She needed about a dozen more loaves and all would be right with the world. Still there was something important that needed to be addressed before she forgot.

“ _Why_ do we no longer need to travel to Oakfield?” she enquired once more.

It took far longer than Victoria was pleased with, but Theresa finally set her utensils down and appeared to gather herself. With a soft sigh, she answered, “Oakfield was never my final destination—merely the easiest path with which to set towards it. Once in town, I would have gathered supplies and begun my journey north—now south—until I reached where I needed to be. Unfortunately, that is not how events transpired, and the journey south, though no longer than it would have been, will be vastly more dangerous. The Edgelands are no place to wander idly.”

“Did you plan this?” Victoria queried, struggling to keep the accusation from her voice. “Did you plan on us being trapped here with no way back until you get what you want?”

“No. I did not, Hero.” Ignoring Reaver’s indignant scoff, Theresa added, “But what is done is done. We can only adapt and continue on.”

“Where would we be continuing on _to?_ ”

“And why on earth should we believe a word out of your mouth?” Reaver input dryly, making it plain that he wouldn’t believe her regardless of what she said.

“I trust you both to make your own decisions on what is right and what is not,” Theresa replied. “As to where we are journeying, there are a series of chambers hidden throughout the Edgelands—tombs, dating back to the end of the Old Kingdom, of great Heroes. I believe the artefacts within will help us to reach the Spire with minimal injury and will make our efforts to stop the Corruption that much easier.”

_Great, we’re grave robbing again,_ she thought with a sigh. That meant hollow men and bugs, but at least neither was that big of a threat. “I thought the Devourer was what we were fighting.”

“The Devourer is a threat, yes, but it is only an agent of a much greater evil.”

“This… _Corruption?_ ”

“The Devourer was sent to spread its darkness throughout the land,” Theresa confirmed. “And in doing so will make it easier for the Corruption to enter this world and consume all in its path.”

“You said before that the Spire’s a bridge,” Victoria recalled, “then why not just force its way through? If it’s so powerful, why send minions in its place?”

“You are correct, but the Spire’s initial destruction dampened a great deal of its power. Lucien’s attempt at rebuilding the Spire could not restore it in full and so its connection to the Void is not as secure as it once was. But make no mistake, Hero, if the Corruption sees an opportunity with which it may slip through into our world, it will,” Theresa added. “And its darkness will overtake the world. All will be consumed and many will die. This is why we must not fail.”

“This sounds rather _familiar,_ does it not? Almost as though we’ve fought it before,” Reaver remarked, almost sarcastically enough to make the words light-hearted, but they held a faint edge of ill-ease.

Victoria felt her stomach clench in response. He was right. Even more telling was how strangely still and silent the Crawler now was; she almost couldn’t sense its presence.

“You have,” Theresa replied, oblivious to any of Victoria’s inner turmoil and seemingly to Reaver’s sarcasm. “The Crawler was the first of the Corruption’s lieutenants to slip though. Shortly before the Spire was destroyed, the Heroes of the Old Kingdom discovered its existence and sealed it away…until it was accidentally released. Fortunately, it appears to be sedated for the time being.”

“If by sedate you mean _dead_ ,” Reaver retorted dryly, sipping at his wine with casual grace.

“No, Reaver, I am afraid the Crawler is very much alive.”

Something in Theresa’s voice made Victoria feel as though a knowing look would have been thrown in her direction had Theresa still possessed her sight. _How long have you known?_ Victoria felt…ill. Simultaneously cold and hot and she now regretted eating that greasy stew. Reaver stared perplexedly at her and she felt her face flush with shame for all those times she’d chided him about not being honest. She wondered if it was bad that she…almost was relieved. They knew now. She no longer had to hide it. So why was she so conflicted?

“Hmm, _no_ , that’s not _possible,_ ” Reaver was saying, drawing Victoria’s attention to the present once more. “I _saw_ what happened— _many_ people witnessed what happened that night. The Crawler possessed Logan and Victoria _killed him._ ”

“And, broken and desperate, it chose to evade death and seek shelter in the nearest living being,” Theresa responded. “I imagine it would have been far more judicious had it understood how steadfast and strong-willed Victoria is.”

She could feel eyes on her, but Victoria refused to look at Reaver. She didn’t want to see him look at her like she was a different person. She didn’t think she could bear the condemnation. Instead, she stared at the table before them, memorizing the wood grain.

“What about Reaver’s influence?” Victoria suddenly input, trying to draw attention away from herself. “We speculated early on that whatever power the Shadow Court has exerted over Reaver was sufficiently hiding you, Theresa, but can we still count on that?”

“I do not believe so,” Theresa responded almost tonelessly. “Undoubtedly the Devourer was surprised to encounter magic that feels much like the Void, but it is unlikely that confusion will hold. When it finds us, it _will_ attack. And we must choose whether we intend to run or to fight.”

That was going to be a hard order, Victoria could already tell. She was no good at running from danger, but Theresa was injured and none of them were really prepared for a large fight. As much as it pained her to admit, running would probably be their best option.

"I've never run from a fight,” Reaver drawled. After a second or two, he added, “ _Tactically withdrawn_ , but never run."

“We might not have a choice,” Victoria murmured, still avoiding his gaze. Too much had already been lost; she wasn’t willing to lose anyone else to pride. “Do we even know what else we might have to face? It doesn’t seem likely the Devourer will be alone.”

“Unfortunately, I do not. It is entirely possible the Corruptor’s queen, the Temptress, has come through as well, but my vision is clouded and I cannot say,” Theresa admitted. “My previous attempts to gain information provided very little fruit.”

Frowning, Victoria finally tore her eyes away from the table top to stare at Theresa. The seeress’s head was bowed and what little could be seen of her face despite her blindfold appeared thoughtful. Victoria’s stomach jolted once more, but this time not out of guilt. Very slowly, she enquired, “You’ve…looked into this before?”

“Yes. Several have offered their assistance previously.”

“And yet you still achieved _nothing?_ ” Reaver remarked. The sarcasm in his tone had, for once, vanished to be replaced with disapproving surprise.

Victoria agreed with him. If this was the first time Theresa had looked into this, Victoria would have understood the lack of organisation and the sudden rush to fight back in time. But she’d been well aware of what was coming. It was the Crawler all over again…except worse. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“I believed I had the situation under control—that I only needed to protect the Spire and make it impossible for anything to enter Albion,” Theresa explained. For the first time Victoria could ever recall, the seeress sounded penitent and as though she truly regretted her decision. Victoria, however, felt it was too late for guilt.

“You were wrong,” Reaver informed her, refilling his cup once more.

Theresa gave a short nod. “I was. It was fortunate Sparrow’s information was still of use or I may not have been able to contact you at all.”

A dull rushing noise flooded Victoria’s ears, punctuated only by the heavy thudding of her heart. Somewhat sharper than intended, she replied, “What does my father have to do with this?”

Her muscles felt tense and tight, her palms damp. She felt…oddly antsy, anxious and like she might spring from her seat at the smallest provocation. She could feel her Will prickling under her skin—anxious to be let loose. In contrast, Reaver had gone very still and very silent.

Theresa didn’t immediately answer and Victoria abruptly realised that admitting Sparrow’s involvement had been a slip. Completely unintentional. Somehow, that made it even worse. _Damn you, Theresa, what are you hiding from me?_

The ancient seeress fiddled with a bit of bread crust for a moment before dropping it back onto her plate. “I approached Sparrow out of necessity. I had contemplated speaking with other experienced Heroes, but most were otherwise occupied and the rest I had doubts about their willingness to see me. I had no desire to send an unskilled Hero into the Edgelands. If the rumours I had heard were false, they would be fine. But if not? I could not risk it. Sparrow was the only Hero I knew would assist me.

“I sought him out, made enquiries into if he was willing to join me, and then explained the situation. First we attempted research, but it proved fruitless. There are great, ancient libraries buried in the North full of information we could only ever dream of. However, there is no access to them and researching anything that happened before the rise of the Guild—particularly anything that happened during the Dark Times or earlier—is nearly impossible.” Theresa pushed her plate away from her and raised her head as though she were now committed to explaining. “We found rumours and falsehoods; tales with less weight than that of a leaf blown astray. Speculation from those who had never seen the world outside their homes, much less what they described in their writings. We began to doubt we would find answers.

“Sparrow decided the only way we would learn anything is if we actually went into the field and investigated. He asked where I had felt disturbances and where I had heard of trouble; in turn, I pointed him towards the Edgelands. The journey did…not end well. Those he travelled with were slain and he barely managed to return to me. …unfortunately, I see now what I failed to see then: the price was far too great. And we were far from prepared.”

Silence had fallen over the table, lured in by the haunting lilt of Theresa’s voice. Victoria thought she might be sick—a sudden weight in her stomach pressing heavily against her. She realised her breath was coming in short, painful bursts. The sudden ache behind her eyes was hard to ignore. She remembered when her father had left for that quest. How he had hugged and kissed them goodbye, promising to be back soon with stories of new adventures to tell. How her mother had started crying herself to sleep at night as the days passed without word of Sparrow’s wellbeing. How Victoria had developed a habit of pattering into Logan’s room in the dead of night to sleep to stave off the nightmares of possible horrors her father could have been fighting. How Logan had, as the days turned to weeks, become her and their mother’s caretaker. It had been the longest Sparrow had ever been away from them. In the end, the only way they had made it through was by telling themselves all would be well.

But it wasn’t. He’d appeared in the courtyard in a flurry of Will and blood and, despite sending for surgeons, there was nothing to be done. No one knew what had harmed him, just that it was beyond medicine’s ability to fix. And so they had sat, for days, and watched him die a slow, agonizing death. Victoria remembered hearing him screaming at hallucinations in the night, thrashing and writhing whenever someone touched him.

She remembered when he suddenly went quiet. _Everything_ went quiet. And nothing was the same again.

Tears pricked at her eyes, both angry and sorrowful, and Victoria was ashamed both for them and the way her voice shook as she finally said, “It was you, then. _You’re_ the one who convinced him to leave. You’re the one who—”

She broke off, choking on her words and her growing fury. Was this what heart break felt like? A pain that seemed small and fleeting at first, but growed until it robbed you of your senses? Was this what true betrayal was like?

“I forced him into nothing, Hero. It was Sparrow’s choice.”

“Only because you fed him stories about beings neither of you could have comprehended. Beings that only slipped into this world because _you_ didn’t have the foresight to destroy the Spire when you had a chance. You told me once to take responsibility for my actions, then take responsibility for _yours_.” The urge to lash out was growing by the second. She could feel the Crawler twisting in response, lacing inky fingers of darkness through her veins. And, though Victoria didn’t want to hurt anyone, at the moment she was beginning to not care.

Theresa flinched, but did not attempt to appear cowed. Instead, she replied evenly, “I have accepted responsibility for my part, but, if you wish to place blame, the fault does not merely lie with me. Your father was a good man, Victoria. There was no dissuading him when it came to helping others. Even when there was no chance in him possibly succeeding, he endeavoured to try. It was not in his nature to abandon those in need. Had he learned of my quest through any other means, the end result would have been the same.”

A bitter taste had settled in Victoria’s throat along with a painful lump. “I’d like to think you believe that, Theresa. That it was a noble and honourable sacrifice in honour of what he believed in. But you pushed him and pushed him and you weren’t there to see what happened. He sold off piece after piece of himself for your sake and, when there was nothing left, he tried to kill himself. You’re lucky mother found him before he passed or you’d be out of Heroes to use. That’s how you did it, isn’t it? First father and then Logan, ripping pieces of themselves away to meet impossible goals. You and this Avo-forsaken country. Well, good job. You got what you wanted. And now you best hope Avo will save you, because I will not. I refuse to continue this cycle. I’m _done_. And I’m leaving.”

She rose to her feet, her chair screeching violently against the uneven floorboards as she pushed herself away from the table. In a single, almost violent movement, she yanked Theresa’s bag from within her own and dropped it at her feet. Fuming, Victoria snatched up the keys to room fifteen and stormed up the stairs.

Reaver and Theresa were left sitting alone in silence—Theresa sitting with her head bowed as though the world’s weight had come to rest upon her and Reaver watching Victoria’s departure with practiced neutrality. Reaver sighed as though he’d decided and accepted that that had been a disaster. He picked up his full cup, stared into the murky depths within, and then abruptly drained the entire thing. Very slowly, he set the cup down.

Tone dry and painfully sarcastic he glanced toward Theresa and finally murmured, “Well done, old bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh...hmm, well, y'know I can't just let her walk out like that, don't you? -chinhands- Next chapter will contain an NSFW scene btw; easily skippable for those that want to, but the scene also contains a ship-relevant conversation. So if you're here for shipping, you might want to take that into consideration. Additionally, it will hopefully contain less tantrums.
> 
> Re Sparrow, Theresa, and dying: I've always kinda been frustrated on the fact that there's no info on how Sparrow died. I'm assuming it's so the player can make up their own lore and decide for themselves how they think it happened, but I dunno, something about it just never sat well with me. It also never sat well with me that Theresa had so long to know about the Crawler and also the Spire and did...nothing? Especially considering there were four very competent Heroes somewhat under her sway. It feels like one of those "this could have been solved so much sooner if you just went to talk to someone" kind of things to me. So I thought...why not combine them? Maybe that's how Sparrow died? This is just me kinda...stretching things. Also possible Sparrow canonically died wrestling chickens, but trying to stop ancient evil sounds so much more valiant.


	11. 10. A Dark Night and A Bleak Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small, tiny warning for not-very-graphic bathtub sex and...uh...fingering at the end of the first scene if you wanna skip it. But there's also a conversation you might not wanna skip at the same time, so...

Victoria closed the door with a bit too much force and fell back against it with heavy breaths. Regret rose like bile in the back of her throat. What she had said…Avo help her, she shouldn’t have taken her anger out on Theresa. As angry as she was, it was neither the time nor place.

 _And when_ is _the correct time?_ the Crawler challenged. _When you have died for her?_

Throat constricting, Victoria stumbled over to the low dresser and the small, dingy mirror hanging above it. At first there was nothing of note in the reflection before her: she stood there, pale and dirty, the tiny room replicated behind her. The shadows seemed oddly thick, coalescing with the corners of the room in a surreal haze. The water in the washtub lay still before ripples suddenly erupted across the surface. And then everything shifted. Shadows spreading, wrapping around her reflection until nothing remained but a wraith with glowing eyes.

“What then would you do?” it added, watching from the other side of the glass.

“It was irrational,” Victoria responded, ignoring its words. Sporadic trembles making their way up her arms as she leaned on the dresser. “I might be angry at Theresa…at a lot of things, but there’s nothing I can do about any of that right now.”

“This is why this country keeps finding itself upon the edge of oblivion. You who swear you are its protectors do nothing until ‘the right time’…and then you wonder why your world is about to fall. Is it any wonder I nearly succeeded?”

“Those are very bold words…especially coming from something abandoned and left for dead by its fellows before trapping itself in the body of a frail human girl,” Victoria spat.

She could feel the Crawler twisting in response as it growled, “Do not play coy. You are neither frail nor human.” Ignoring her confused thoughts, it huffed and added, “Now we are trapped here with fools and you’re still worried about morality.”

“That’s exactly why I need to _‘worry about morality’_ ,” Victoria replied, trying to calm down. She was more tired than angry now. Exhaustion tugged at her limbs and all she wanted was to lay down. “Because we _are_ trapped here. We can’t leave. Until the Corruption is gone, I don’t think I could use the seal to travel down to the bar, much less home.”

“I could—”

“ _Please_ , you can’t even levitate a stone right now.” She felt it bristle in response and had the odd urge to laugh. “And, since neither of us can do anything, I need to apologise. Even though I don’t want to. This quest is going to be hard enough even without Theresa and I not talking to each other.” And Theresa had been right about her father. She hated to admit it, but her father _would_ have helped regardless of whether Theresa had asked or not. It was just…who he had been.

The Crawler scoffed. “Pity and lies—excuses for the damned. Soon you’ll be as your father is: dead and useless. If you wish to cry to someone, cry to your whore. Your predictability bores me.”

 _Stop insulting everyone,_ Victoria thought, annoyed. But it was too late. The shadows had faded from her reflection and she felt the Crawler’s presence retreat until it was just a vague sensation in the back of her mind. She wondered if it was good or bad that the Crawler had given up on an argument without her even needing to curse herself.

She stared at her reflection as though it might have had some new insight for her, but it offered nothing. She looked a mess. Uneven strands of hair fell about her face, matted with salt, sweat, and dirt—the longest locks reaching beneath her collarbone, the shortest brushing her jaw. Her clothes were filthy and tattered. She shrugged out of her cloak and harnesses, laying them atop the dresser, and began unbuttoning her shirt. Her shoulder was covered in a mottled mass of yellow and brown. Where the kraken’s arm…leg… _thing_ had wrapped around her torso was unmarked. All in all, not too bad, she decided as she rummaged in her bag for a healing potion. Victoria purposely ignored the fact that she’d nearly drowned.

Potion acquired, she uncorked it and gulped it down. The bruising faded, the damage to her arm repaired despite the tightness still lingering in her limbs. _Right…bath and then bed. Fix things with Theresa in the morning._

She’d just barely knelt down beside the bath, lacing her Will through the water to warm it, when the room’s door opened. She didn’t look up until she heard the faint scuff of boots against the old wooden floors.

Reaver stood at the door, having to lean down slightly to not knock into the low door frame. He looked out of place as he closed and locked the door behind him—like he didn’t belong and didn’t know what to do. And it was with an uncertainty that didn’t suit him that he queried, “Is everything…alright?”

Victoria turned her gaze back to the washtub, watching her fingers as she swished them about under the water. Soon the water was steaming and she was forced to remove her hand and shut off the connection to her Will. But she didn’t move. Words…she couldn’t put her thoughts into words. Couldn’t collect her feelings. Staring at the water, she finally replied, “I’m an asshole.”

He didn’t immediately acknowledge her words, letting silence build up between them. She heard the soft thump of his boots against the floor and the creaky protest of the bed as he sat down. He wasn’t sneaking about, wasn’t taking care to not be heard, so she had to assume he wasn’t concerned about her attacking him. But he wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t responding to her disparaging musings with caustic wit…something had to be bothering him. Was it that she’d failed to mention the Crawler or was it what she’d said to Theresa? She could feel the reverberations of her earlier outburst echoing through her chest still and she _knew_ he had to still be running the words through his mind, considering them. Pondering how problematic Victoria’s anger was going to be. But he wasn’t calling her out. She expected anger and sarcasm from him; dry remarks about how she was being a hypocrite for expecting honesty and frankness from him and not offering any in turn. She knew he was thinking it, so why wasn’t he saying it?

After a long moment, she heard his boots clatter to the floor and the soft _fwhump_ of his coat joining hers atop the dresser. He sighed and offered a breathy half-laugh. “I’ve known worse.”

She choked on a snort and finally turned to look at him in full. He’d stripped down to his shirt and trousers, his hair mussed but pushed out of his face. His gaze was guarded, but he wasn’t looking at her like she was a monster, so she considered it a good sign.

“Have you ever met one with hair as bad as mine currently is?” she teased.

“No; that’s a brand of horror I’ve not yet had a chance to encounter.” He paused, as though he intended to change the subject, but stopped himself at the last moment. “I doubt you’ll be able to fix it without a bath.”

“I’ve never cut my hair before,” she admitted. As much as she wanted to know what he was thinking, she was thankful they were keeping it on a light subject. “It’s annoying, but I…I don’t….”

“I could do it.”

She paused, searching his face to see if he was joking or not. Finally, she had to conclude that he was being serious. Victoria offered him a hesitant smile. “I would appreciate that.”

They set about getting undressed and Victoria managed to acquire a comb and scissors from her bag. The bath water was warm and soothing on her tired muscles as she followed Reaver into the tub, seating herself as comfortably as possible between his legs. There wasn’t really enough room for one tall person in the bath, much less two, but they made due.

Victoria carefully wet her hair, trying not to drench him in the process, and tried not to tense up when he began to carefully comb out the tangles in her hair. Every knot made her flinch, but he worked them apart without more than a gentle tug at her scalp. His fingers wove through her hair, the sensation both ticklish and oddly comforting. She closed her eyes, subconsciously leaning into his touch. This wasn’t so bad, she decided. Soothing, actually. She wondered why they hadn’t done something like this before.

They’d fallen silent again, only speaking when Reaver asked her to explain how long she wanted her hair to end up. The _snip_ of scissors worried her slightly. Reaver was too concerned with aesthetic and appearance to purposefully make her hair look worse (which she highly doubted was possible), but that didn’t change the fact that she’d never had hair shorter than her mid-back before now. At least she could grow it out again when this was all over.

The minutes passed, dragging slowly onward. Once more, a paranoid feeling of guilt crept into her mind and she sighed, failing to banish it.

“Was I wrong,” she began hesitantly, “to confront Theresa, that is? Regardless of how angry I am, I still have to follow her through the Edgelands and…I….” She trailed lamely into silence, staring at her hands. _I need to apologise…to a lot of people_.

“No,” Reaver replied. “You did what you felt you had to.”

“But that doesn’t make it right.”

He didn’t reply and the conversation halted. Something about his tone felt uncomfortably off. It was like having “we need to talk” announced, but without words. A quiet sense of wrongness without reason. But, as he set the scissors and comb down on the floor beside the tub, she found she couldn’t bear to ask.

“We should have brought a mirror,” Reaver observed, shifting slightly. “Does it feel right?”

Victoria ran her damp fingers through her hair. She wasn’t completely certain, but she thought it was right. Just long enough for her to be able to tie it out of her face, but also even and…well…intentional-looking. “Yes, I think it is. Thank you,” she added, unable to turn around enough to give him a grateful smile. “Hmm…I wonder what you’ll have to grab onto now.”

Reaver snorted, utterly undignified, and reached up to give a gentle tug on the back of her hair in answer. His hand trailed slowly down her back as though it could navigate a safe path through her multitude of scars before coming to rest in the water beside her.

She watched as he dipped his hand into the warm water and, drops slipping from his fingers, brought it back up to smooth the hair from her face. She sighed, trying to relax and failing. Somehow finding a middle ground between gentle and insistent, he pulled her down to rest her back against his chest. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with him, but it was easy to pretend otherwise at that moment. Eyes closed; body limp. His hands trailed down her shoulders with a slowness that made her feel as if he were studying her. His right hand only stilled when it reached her waist, carefully brushing his thumb against her abdomen, though the other trailed lower to knead against her hip.

“Victoria,” he began, sounding almost cross. He cut himself off with a faint sigh she could feel in his chest before adding with somewhat more gentleness: “Do you trust me?”

The hand at her hip had moved to her inner thigh. Despite his words, she could feel her stress start to melt away as his fingers massaged her skin. Trepidation prodded at the back of her mind, but the fact that he was _asking_ …and the way his touch felt, was enough to convince her that this wasn’t a conversation to run from. “Even though you’ve expressly stated I _shouldn’t_? Yes. I trust you.”

“Are you certain?”

She cut herself off with a soft gasp before she could even begin to formulate a response. Almost tauntingly, he flicked a nail against her clit. Lightning flared, spreading rapidly through her nerves, and she felt her stomach clench futilely against the heat that had nestled there. She instinctively flung out a hand to steady herself against the edge of the bath. _Oh…fuck…_. He’d never been what some would call a “gentle” lover, so when he repeated the gesture, trading the sharpness of his nails for the barest brush of his fingers against her, she felt immediately unbalanced. Breath vanished from her lungs. Toes curled against the steadily building pressure at the base of her spine.

“Hmm, the problem,” Reaver continued, lips soft against her shoulder, “is that I…don’t quite believe you.”

The hand at her waist had stopped drawing patterns against her stomach and had slid up to caress her breast. Kisses and nips trailed up her neck, brushing her earlobe and against her jaw, distracting her from his hands’ teasing until, with almost too much pressure, he rolled her nipple between his fingers. Muscles spasmed. Heat jolting between her legs. She had to wrench herself from his grasp and clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from letting out more than a muffled curse.

There were _people_ down there, in the pub beneath them, she reminded herself almost too late. Shouting curses, and probably even moaning encouragement too loudly, was most likely ill-advised. Her limbs were shaking slightly. The space between her legs felt unsatisfyingly empty. She was well aware the smart thing to do was to move this to the bed, where she could at least bite down on a pillow if the need to call out arose. But he was already guiding her back down to lean against him. She didn’t resist.

“If you _did_ trust me, I would think you might’ve _mentioned_ your current predicament at least _once_ in the last few years, _hmm_?” His tone had gone from quietly pensive to angry and…almost disappointed. It was confusing. His words said one thing, his voice said another, and his hands said something else _entirely_ ; it was beginning to give her emotional whiplash.

Victoria _intended_ to reply “If I’d thought you gave a damn, I might have considered confiding in you”. What came out, however, was a frustrated whimper. His hand had found its way back between her thighs, steadily stroking slick circles against her. Her back arched in response. Heels of her feet struggled to keep purchase against the bottom of the wooden tub. The only thing keeping her from slipping and flailing like an idiot was the hand that was slowly driving her mad.

His lips were at her shoulder again. Hard nips along her collarbone, accentuating the pulsing heat in the pit of her stomach with sharp spikes. Pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable. _Please…I need…_. She _needed_ rough and frantic. To turn around and, if he would not take her, then _she_ would take _him_. Bury him deep within her until the roll and grind of their hips left them both undone. She _couldn’t_. His fingers were relentless, pace unchanging. The higher the friction built, the less her brain felt like working. Every exhale of breath was shaky, escaping from lips she had to bite to keep from making a sound. She felt as though she were about to fall from a precipice.

“I’m sorry; I— _please_. Please kiss me,” she pleaded, voice breathless and needy. Too far gone to read the emotions in his eyes when she turned to look at him. All she knew was that she needed something, _anything_ , tangible to hold on to so she wouldn’t be swept away.

He did. His mouth swallowed the moan in her throat as she shattered, breaking under his touch into waves of what someone far more poetic than her may have called euphoria. His hands did not stop their manipulations, just slowed. Guiding her through her high until she was left loose-limbed and languid. Thoughts long since faded to a faint buzz.

Her eyes felt heavy and she struggled to keep them open as she lay there, listening to his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing. Something nagged at the back of her mind, trying to crack through her detached contentment. Something that was probably important. She stopped trying to figure it out as his arms wrapped around her, cradling her to his chest.

She felt him bury his face against her shoulder. A faint hiss of breath that could have been a sigh or a note of frustration. And all she could do was hum a faint agreement as he murmured: “We need to work on this…trust…communication… _thing_.”

~ * ~

_Mist swirled across her vision—a pale world with no end. For once it was perfectly silent. There was nothing. No chattering voices, no echoing questions. But it felt unpleasant now. No longer welcome. She could feel eyes on her; something looming behind her, waiting, watching. She whirled around, expecting a monster, but there was nothing there._

~ * ~

Victoria woke up to an empty room. She didn’t recall falling asleep. They’d been talking, discussing the effects the Crawler had on her and whether or not they should be concerned it was still around. She supposed she must have fallen asleep while they were talking and wished she hadn’t. It didn’t really matter now, though. Reaver was gone now—probably off doing whatever it was he did when he didn’t sleep. _Might as well get up, too_. The room’s singular window was beginning to lighten as dawn approached and Victoria sat up with a yawn. With any luck, Theresa hadn’t decided to leave on her own and so all they needed to do was regroup and get ready.

She stumbled out of bed and dragged on some clean clothes. It felt a bit odd to be getting ready without Nero interrupting her with kisses or asking to be scratched as she pulled on her boots, but she also knew she would rather him safe at home than in danger here. Yawning once more, Victoria shrugged into her various holsters and sheathes, taking time to ensure her weapons were ready and in order, and fixed her bag to her waist.

The hallway was silent when she finally stepped out into it—the other patrons either asleep or gone. Victoria went to knock on Theresa’s door, but found the room open. The bed hastily made and the seeress’s belongings nowhere to be seen. She sighed, hoping she wasn’t too late, and made her way downstairs.

Other than a pair of gobbits fighting over a chunk of bread, the pub was empty. _Where on earth are they?_ she wondered, stepping over to the gobbits. She took the bread from them and broke it in half, handing them a piece each. Their screechy squeaks abruptly stopped, faerie wings fluttering frustratedly and their mouse-like noses twitching. Victoria didn’t notice. There were voices, raised and angry, coming from the back exit of the pub and she crept towards them warily.

“—at did you do to me?” she heard Reaver demand, his tone clearly unwelcoming of being refused.

“ _I_ did nothing,” Theresa replied, sounding as though she’d been exhausted of both energy and patience. “I warned you once, Thief Prince, about the dangers of touching me.”

Victoria snuck closer, heart thudding in her ears. The door was slightly open, looking out on a dirt courtyard. She couldn’t see either of them, but…maybe that was a good thing. She probably wasn’t supposed to be listening to this. A better person probably would have walked away; found somewhere to wait until they were done. She didn’t move.

“And what I saw?”

“A vision, nothing more.”

“ _Don’t_ play coy with me, Seer. Was it _real?_ Is she… _is she_ —” He cut himself off with a growl of frustration. Victoria could hear the heavy scuff of shuffling steps. Angry pacing.

Theresa remained silent. Victoria couldn’t tell whether Theresa was letting him stew or genuinely thinking over how to answer him. She almost didn’t want to hear the answer. However, just as Victoria had decided it was time to break this up, to distract Reaver from whatever was bothering him, Theresa finally replied, “What you Saw _was_ a vision of the future. But not a future waiting for you. The choices you’ve made…that future is lost to you. Abandoned. You would do well to put it from your mind.”

The pacing had stopped.

Something about the silence felt lost and empty. Victoria stood there, hand on the door’s latch, and let her confusion sweep through her. What future was Theresa talking about? What had Reaver Seen? Whatever it was clearly troubled him. Should she…interrupt? Ask what they were talking about? _No_ , she told herself forcefully. If either of them wanted to talk about it, then she would ask. There were more important things to worry about. The Spire, The Corruption, creatures from the Void out to destroy the world…those were far more important. They needed to work together. She couldn’t afford to alienate them just because she was curious. After all, she still needed to make amends for the previous night. Amends that would be impossible if Theresa walked away from them now.

Taking care to wipe any traces of guilt from her face, Victoria took a deep breath and barged out into the courtyard as though she _hadn’t_ been eavesdropping.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, feigning surprise. Her concern automatically deepened at the carefully neutral expression on Theresa’s face. Reaver wouldn’t look at her. She could feel her forced enthusiasm souring to something like an uncomfortable hook in her gut. “I…hope I’m not interrupting. But if we want to leave today, we should leave as soon as possible.”

She fidgeted, worried she was about to be told off. She was beginning to regret rushing in.

“You’re right,” Reaver finally agreed, the words coming out too quick. “If we’re to be dragged—on foot—through this damned countryside, we may as well leave before the beasties discover us.”

“I was going to see if there might be a way around the ‘on foot’ part,” Victoria admitted. She turned her gaze to Theresa. “Do you still want our help?”

Theresa inclined her head. “That would be appreciated.”

“Good; then we need supplies. Food, water, preferably a way to travel that’s faster than running.” She paused, contemplative, and added, “Extra weapons and potions would be nice, as well.”

“This _town_ is little more than a handful of _huts_ ,” Reaver complained.

“But it _can_ help us,” Theresa declared, cutting him off before he could start on a rant. “I will see what I can find.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Victoria enquired. The seeress had reflexively reached for her side, as though in pain. The last thing they needed was for her condition to worsen again while they were away from an apothecary or physician.

Theresa grimaced. “I am more than capable, Hero.”

“Very well. We’ll meet back here in…say an hour?”

Victoria waited for a sign of confirmation and all she received was a short nod from Theresa, who quickly left. Reaver didn’t move. A cool breeze blew the short strands of her hair into her face and Victoria struggled to tuck them behind her ear. Heaving an annoyed sigh, Reaver tried to slip past her and back into the pub.

She caught his arm before he could go. “Are you alright?”

He watched her for a moment, blue eyes lighter than she’d seen them in a while. He gently smoothed the hair from her face and dropped a peck on her forehead. “Ask me later.”

With that, he disappeared into the pub. Victoria was left with nothing but a crushing sensation of surprise and an underlying tremor of nameless dread. He…hadn’t done _that_ before. Not so boldly, where they could be seen, at least. All she could think was that something was terribly wrong. Had to be. Why else would he act so strange?

Frowning to herself, she took the long way around the building. The surrounding trees swayed gently in the breeze. The sky was beginning to lighten and the first of the birds were already singing to each other. In her experience, small towns usually were early to rise—mainly on account of the farmers and any other craftspeople in town needing to replenish their stock before the oncoming day—and she hoped this town followed suit. The journey was going to be difficult enough as it was without the supplies they needed.

And then, near the edge of town, she saw it: the caravan they’d passed on the way into town. In the growing light it was a mystery how it was still standing. The paint was gone and the wood was weathered an off-putting grey and the roof’s shingles looked as though a strong wind would blow them off. But, looking closer, she realised it was actually rather sturdy. The wheels, the bars for harnessing a horse…it all looked like it was in good shape and road worthy.

“’Lo, there!” a friendly voice called out. Victoria turned to find an older man sitting on his front stoop, tossing handfuls of feed to a brood of hens. An enormously fat hog lay on its side, leaning against a fence that was little more than sticks and twine. She could hear goats bleating from somewhere nearby.

“Good morning,” she replied. “Is this cart yours?”

“Aye, ‘tis. Are yeh an explorer, then?”

“I—” She stopped herself from continuing on. They still didn’t need to draw attention to themselves, but what if it helped get them on the road faster? No, she decided. Besides, what if the Corruption had a way of monitoring them through civilians? They didn’t need the Devourer catching up with them sooner. “Actually, yes. I am. And I was wondering if could borrow the cart…and a horse.”

The man tossed down a final handful of feed to the hens, smacked his palms together to rid them of any residue, and got laboriously to his feet. He eyed the cart contemplatively. Victoria suddenly wondered just how long the “for sale” sign had been on this cart and if the offer still applied any more.

“This thing? Yeh can have the daft thing; fixed it meself, but ne’er wanted to keep it,” he replied, patting the cart gently. “But a horse….”

“Will that be a problem?” Victoria asked, pausing in the midst of removing her spare money pouch from her bag.

“Aye…and…no. Satyr is a tough ol’ girl; she can pull this caravan easy like. But she’s me only horse. I could only let her go if yeh can guarantee you’ll be bringin’ her back home…or if yeh can afford to pay for a new horse.”

Victoria gave a short nod of agreement and pulled free the pouch. “How much?”

“Five hundred,” he said quickly, as though attempting to discourage negotiations. “An’ the hundred for the caravan.”

“Done.”

Victoria didn’t know how much money was in the pouch, just that it was at least double what the man was asking for. Without stopping to count out six hundred gold pieces, she tossed the pouch over. The coins jingled merrily at the movement. The man stared at the pouch in his hands as though he’d never seen such a thing; first with fascination and then with utter confusion.

“This is too much,” he managed, needing to stop and clear his throat twice.

“I fully intend on bringing your horse back, but there’s also a risk, I know. And good horses are expensive. Keep the extra…give it away…whatever you decide to do with it is fine with me. But I need to be leaving within the hour. And anything you can do to help is much appreciated.”

He stared first at her and then down at the gold. His fingers tightened against the worn leather. “Where shall I meet yeh when I’ve gotten her ready?”

~ * ~

“No; _absolutely not_!” Reaver huffed. He paced a couple steps away from her before stepping closer once more. “Have you _completely_ gone mad?”

They met back up a little after the agreed upon time with good results. While Victoria had been securing them a better form of transportation and a few other goods, Reaver had managed to find them extra weapons and had convinced (or, bribed, rather) the innkeepers to part with a small selection of foodstuffs. Theresa had acquired potions and ingredients—enough to stave off more injuries than Victoria could imagine occurring on this voyage. Then again, considering what they’d already faced…perhaps it was better to be safe than sorry.

Victoria had been excited to show her companions the cart. The man who’d sold it to her had given them all they would need to take care of Satyr, the horse, whilst on the road—extra tack, feed, and water as well as farriering tools and a kit for grooming. He’d given them dried goods and a hen, as well, and had marked on her map a few locations he knew of with rest stops for horses along their path. It was all going so much better than she’d expected…right up until partway through packing up when she saw the look on Reaver’s face.

“You _can’t_ be serious,” Reaver ranted, staring at the caravan as though it might collapse at any moment.

Victoria sighed, rolling her eyes. Why did he always have to be so melodramatic? There was no one around to act for, so why bother? She helped Theresa up onto the driver’s bench. Once the older woman was situated, Victoria turned to give Reaver a disapproving frown. “Reaver, if it makes you _that_ uncomfortable, you _do_ realise you can always _walk_ , don’t you?”

He gaped at her in muted horror before _tsk_ -ing dismissively. “What a cheeky suggestion! Just imagine!”

With an expression that insinuated she was torturing him, he pulled himself up into the caravan. Curling up slightly, he managed to fold his long limbs through the opening behind the driver’s seat. She tried not to look too self-satisfied at his acquiescence—she could just imagine all the judgmental thoughts passing through his head at the sight of the cramped, rustic interior.

Not sure what else to do, Victoria gave a quick final check to Satyr’s tack. The Cob lifted her head and gave a soft snort of acknowledgement before going back to snuffling around. Victoria gave her a hesitant pat. _We’ll be alright, won’t we?_ She turned and clambered up onto the bench beside Theresa.

It wasn’t until she had the reins in her hands that she realised something critical. “I have a confession to make: I’ve never done this before.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Reaver replied. From the sound of it, he was already poking around at everything he could get his hands on.

Between the three of them, they finally got Satyr moving and figured out how to steer her. They carried on at an easy, but not unhurried pace. Trees passed them by—oaks, ash, and elm all stretching their branches towards the sky. Birdsong and sunlight greeted them warmly.

It was not at all what Victoria had expected. Coming into town had been so desolate and lonely-feeling, walking beside cliff-faces with nothing but the sea to catch one if they fell. Leaving Duncton’s Halt, however, felt almost peaceful and serene. The long grass swayed in the breeze. It was almost easy to forget they had a quest to complete.

“I’m surprised we haven’t been attacked yet,” Victoria stated, carefully steering Satyr around a stone outcropping. “I almost figured the Devourer would have found us by now.”

“Undoubtedly it is still looking for us,” Theresa replied. She seemed almost meditatively calm now, as though any of her anger from the morning or disappointment from the previous night had never happened. “If we are fortunate, the Devourer is too far South to be of any hindrance to us. Hopefully, we’ll be able to slip through with minimal notice.”

“And…if we _are_ noticed?”

“It will be as I warned you: we will need to choose between fighting and running.”

They fell into silence. The breeze felt cooler than it had been; the sun’s warmth not so penetrating. She almost wished she hadn’t asked.

Travel felt slow and monotonous. Occasionally they passed houses and farms, fields with grazing animals. Any people they passed frowned up at the cart in suspicion as though questioning their reasoning for being there. But they let them be and soon the group was trading open fields and trees for steep hills and cliffs—some of which were so sudden that there was no indication they were there until it was almost too late. Boulders sat at roadsides like sentinels.

Hours crawled by and the morning bled slowly into the afternoon. Bluffs rose up along the sides of the road, their faces peppered with vegetation that was trying in vain to cling to the rock. They followed the valley. The walls drew closer, casting the road in shadow. Victoria heard Reaver shift around in the cart and felt the soft kiss of his breath on her neck as he leaned forward. They’d driven through a tunnel in one of the cliffs and had come out at the base of an ancient, arched structure. Clearly Old Kingdom in design, it rose up magnificently high. Though parts of its stone work had crumbled away, it was mostly intact and entirely beautiful. Victoria wondered at its purpose, trying to keep from steering Satyr off the road while staring at the ruins.

“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Reaver murmured. Victoria hummed in agreement and, once they were no longer within sight of the ruins, Reaver finally settled back down.

They ventured into forest once more. The afternoon was beginning to grow late as they reached a small shack; Victoria looked down at what she could see, realised it was a horse stop, and directed Satyr to it. She drew the mare to a halt when they arrived and hopped down. They’d begun a routine when the group had left Duncton’s Halt: driving for a couple hours and then stopping shortly to check on Satyr and let her take some feed and water before heading out again. Victoria was truly surprised by how much she was happy about the stop’s discovery.

Mud squelched under her boots as she went to fetch some tools and cleaned out Satyr’s hooves. With an impatient snuffle-snort, Satyr bumped her muzzle lightly against Victoria’s head as though to hurry her along. Huffing a laugh, Victoria carefully released the hoof she’d been cleaning and, with her free hand, patted Satyr’s muzzle.

“I meant to ask,” Victoria called to Theresa, who was holding Satyr’s reins, as she moved on to the next hoof, “is there a specific place we’re meant to reach tonight or should we just camp anywhere?”

“There is a place,” Theresa confirmed. “It isn’t far from here. Its secrets will be of use to us and it will provide a safe location to rest for the night. I can direct you.”

Once Satyr was ready, Reaver offered to take the reins and, hesitantly, Victoria agreed. She found a place to sit directly behind him, perched atop Satyr’s feed crate, and watched the scenery go by. He wasn’t as overly cautious and wasn’t going out of his way to keep Satyr at an easy speed, but she had to admit he seemed more aware of what he was doing than she did—or, at the very least, the concept made sense to him.

In terse, clipped tones, Theresa occasionally broke the semi-silence to direct him before falling quiet again. Though unable to get very comfortable, Victoria felt her thoughts slip away from her and into an unintelligible hum.

The sun began to slip towards the horizon and the trees began to crowd the road. Ferns intruded upon the path, reaching damp leaves towards the cart like fingers. In some places the road disappeared entirely, leaving Reaver to slowly direct Satyr around trees without losing the caravan in the process. Old Kingdom ruins peeked through the foliage, teasing at the knowledge of what had once resided there. Eventually the trees pulled back again. A small group of loggers worked at the edge of the forest and they called out greetings as they passed and warnings that one of the roads ahead was partially blocked.

“Should we be concerned about the road?” Victoria asked around a yawn.

“No,” Theresa replied. “Follow the stream; it will lead us there quicker.”

 _What stream?_ Victoria wondered as Reaver observed that it would be easier to follow a stream if there were an actual stream before them.

Both of their musings were answered as they crested the next low hill and found the road ran directly through a low, slow-moving creek. Rocks and fallen trees blocked the path to the left and part of the road directly before them. Reaver steered Satyr right and had her slow, directing her carefully around the creek’s many twists and turns.

Night had nearly fallen as Theresa directed them back onto the road. The silence was heavy as they ventured under a massive stone arch, Satyr’s hooves clacking sharply on the stones now beneath her. A sheer rock face greeted them and Reaver pulled Satyr to a stop.

“This can’t be—”

“We are here,” Theresa interrupted, clambering down from the bench with somewhat ease.

Victoria pulled open the gate separating the seat from the inside of the cart and crawled through, exchanging wary frowns with Reaver. There was something like a door carved into the rock—arches and pillars inscribed with countless glyphs. She helped him secure the reins and, together, they made their way over to where Theresa stood.

“What is this place?” Victoria enquired, staring up at it in awe.

“The Spirit Chambers; it is here we will spend tonight,” Theresa replied, holding out an arm to keep her from running forward. “Please stand back.”

She raised her hands and a long dead language fell from her lips. Victoria couldn’t see what Theresa was doing, but she could _feel_ it. The soft prickle of Will; odd-feeling if only because it wasn’t her own. A glow began to stir in the dusty sigils, flaring to a vibrant blue. With a whoosh of dust and air, whatever seal had been placed upon the door was broken. The cracks in the stone slid open to reveal a hole into perfect darkness.

“Lead the horse inside so I may reseal the door. We will make camp just inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told you how much I like gobbits and writing travelling? No? Well, in this essay, I will--
> 
> (Additional note: I feel like Reaver's the type to deflect from important/personal things with sex. -announcer voice- Is this thing too much to handle? Are the consequences of these actions to dire? Am I (he) secretly in great emotional distress? Try "getting laid" to momentarily distract from the horrors of your everyday life!)


End file.
